a 


CIHM 

iCMH 

Microfiche 

Collection  de 

Series 

microfiches 

(IVIonographs) 

(monographies) 

Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


'i(-}'Kr 


jmFimm^msmr^^j^^jT^.^^ 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  original 
copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
may  be  bibliographicaliy  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 


D 


n 


D 


D 


Coloured  covers  / 
Couverture  de  couleur 


□    Covers  damaged  / 
Couverture  endommag6e 

□    Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Couverture  restauree  et/ou  pellicul6e 

I         Cover  title  missing  /  Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

I I    Coloured  maps  /  Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 

I      I    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 


Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

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Tombre  ou  de  la  distorsion  le  long  de  la  marge 
interieure. 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restorations  may  appear 
within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these  have  been 
omitted  from  filming  /  II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages 
blanches  ajoutees  lors  d'une  restauration 
apparaissent  dans  le  texte,  mais,  lorsque  cela  etait 
possible,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  6t6  film6es. 

Additional  comments ' 
Ccmmentaires  suppl6mentaires: 


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plaire qui  sont  peut-§tre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographiq.'e,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peu/ent  exiger  une  modification  dans  la  m6tho- 
de  normale  de  filmage  sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 

I I   Coloured  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

I I   Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommag6es 


D 


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Q   Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
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I      I   Pages  detached  /  Pages  d6tach6es 

L/j   Showthrough / Transparence 

r~7   Quality  of  pnnt  varies  / 


n 


D 


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Comprend  du  materiel  suppl6mentaire 

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tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  totalement  ou 
partiellement  obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une 
pelure,  etc.,  ont  ete  filmees  ^  nouveau  de  fagon  a 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 

Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 
discolourations  are  filmed  twice  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant  ayant  des 
colorations  variables  ou  des  d6colorr.tions  sont 
film6es  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la  meilleure  image 
possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below  / 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu^  ct-dessc-js. 


10x 


14x 


18x 


/ 


12x 


16x 


20x 


22x 


26x 


30x 


24x 


28x 


32x 


Th«  copy  filmed  h«f«  has  b««n  raproducad  thanks 
to  tha  ganarosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'axamplaira  film*  fut  raproduit  graca  A  !• 
g*n*rosit*  da: 

Bibliotheque  nationals  du  Canada 


Tha  imagai  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  ba.t  quality 
powibia  conaidaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  apacificationa. 

Original  copias  in  printad  papar  covara  ara  fllmad 
baQinning  with  tha  front  covar  a.sd  andmg  on 
tha  last  paga  with  a  printad  or  illustratad  'mpraa- 
sion.  or  tha  back  cowar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copias  ara  filmad  bagmning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  illustratad  impras- 
sion.  and  anding  on  tha  last  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illustratad  imprassion. 


Tha  last  racordad  frama  on  aach  microficha 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  — ^  ""••"'"9  ^|F°  .,' 
T1NUE0">.  or  tha  symbol  V  (maaning    SNO   I. 
whichavar  appliaa. 

Maps,  platas.  charts,  ate.  may  ba  filmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  includad  in  ona  anposura  ara  filrnad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  cornar.  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  framas  as 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrams  illustrata  tha 
mathod: 


Las  imagas  suivantas  ont  «ti  raproduitas  avac  la 
plus  grand  soin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  l'axamplaira  film*,  at  tn 
conf  ormit*  avac  las  conditions  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 

Laa  axamplairas  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
papiar  ast  imprim*a  sont  filmSs  an  commancant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  tn  tarminant  soit  par  la 
darni*ra  paga  qui  comporta  una  ampramta 
d'imprassion  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat,  salon  la  cas.  Tous  laa  autras  axamplairas 
originaux  sont  film*s  an  commancant  par  la 
pramiira  paga  qui  comporta  una  «mprt*nta 
d'impraasion  ou  d'illustration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darni*ra  page  qui  comports  una  talla 
omprainta. 


Un  daa  symbolas  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dtrnikr*  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha.  salon  la 
caa:  la  symbols  — ^  signifia  "A  SUIVRE  '   '- 
symbola  V  signifia  "FIN". 


la 


Las  cartas,  planchas,  tablaaux.  ate.  pauvant  atre 
film*s  *  das  taux  da  reduction  diff«rants. 
Lorsqua  la  documant  ast  trop  grand  pour  etra 
raproduit  an  un  saul  clich*.  il  ast  film*  *  partir 
da  I'angia  su?*riaur  gaucha.  da  gaucha  *  droits. 
at  da  haut  tn  bas.  an  pranant  la  nombra 
d'imagaa  n*cassaira.  Las  diagrammas  suivants 
illuatront  la  m*thoda. 


■■*..;  j^■ 


M.J..^  : 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


Hi 

IB 

1^ 

1^ 

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tii 

1^ 

Z2 
2.0 


^    APPLIED  IM/^GE 


165.3   £qs(   Mam   Street 

Roct-.ester.   New   York         H609       11^4 

(716)    482  -  0300  -  Phone 

(716)    288  -  5989  -  Fa, 


?:^7^.:^.t;v 


.f. 


ST.    CUTHBERT'S 


w  ', ' 


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s/.., 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S    i 


ROBERT  E.  KNOWLES 


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Copyright,   ityoj,  hy 
rUmins  ff.  Rn',U  C«m/>any 
T his  Edition  it  fwHsh^if  ^%_  •   /  „ 

-0'  -e  sold  zn  any  other  country 


880316 


THE   CANADIAN    PILGRIM 
FATHERS 


:M^" 


^jrssixmmM.:m^^^ 


CONTENTS 


•MAT 

I. 


II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

▼III. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

xvni. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII, 

xxm. 
sxiv. 


THl  V   OV  THK   TICK. 

A   1     "^        ITU   A  8ECni;i'   . 
OUn    MUTUAL   TUIAL 
OUR   MUTUAL   VRBDIOT      . 
MY    KIRK   SESSION 
TlIK   FIRflT   PARISH    KfUND 
"THK   CHILD  OF  TUK    MEUIMKNT " 
"A   NKW   FOOT  OX  TUK   FLOOU" 
"anokljj  UA'AWAUHs"     . 
MV    PIOUS    PROKLIOATK       . 
rLUCKlNO   A   FIKRV    llRAND 
"by  that  HAMK  TuKEN" 
.VITU    THK   WOEKME.V 
WITH   THE   KUPLOVKHS      , 
A    BOLD  PEOPOSAI. 

oeordik's  OOT-TUnx 

"NOO,    THK   IX-TUUn"       . 
UOW   E,..s,K   WON   TUB  OATR 

A    MAIIiEN's    LOVE 

t 

A    KATHEU'S    CRUCIilXIUN 

THE   OLI.    PUEOENTi>ii's    NKW  BOXO 

"the  illLI.S  Of  XUJ;  ooi.s" 

A   MAIDKX    IltlESTEstS 

t 

THE   SWI-KT   SUNNY   SOUTH 


V 
20 
25 
33 
40 
47 
65 
00 
C!) 
74 
i3 
S)2 
Oi) 
111 
120 

r.',2 

Hi 
140 
ICO 
174 

\8'^ 

201 
214 


CBAf. 
XXV, 

XXVII. 

IXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 


CONTENTS 

ST.    nrTHBERT'8  S3C0ND  OALI. 

love's  sinqino  sacrificp; 

THE   HIDDKN  CRTClFIX    . 
THE   HEATHERY  HILLS 
"AND   ALL   HUT  HE   DEPARTED" 
love's   VICTORY  OVER    MX 
love's  TBIDHPH   OVi.;-,   ALL 


PAG! 

241 

258 
271 
280 
290 
302 
309 


I 


241 

258 

271 

280 

290 

302 

309 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE  WEST 


THB   TURN    OF   THE   TIDB 

"  TF  you  don't  get  the  call  you  needn't  come  back 
-*-     here,"  said  my  wife  to  me  as  I  stood  upon  the 
door-step,  bag  in  hand,  and  my  hard-bought  ticket  in 
my  pocket. 

"Well,  dear  one,  I  would  be  sure  of  it  if  the>- 
could  only  see  the  perquisite  that  goes  along  with 
me. 

"You  must  be  more  serious,  Tom,  if  you  expect 
great  calls ;  but  come  inside  a  minute  till  I  .  y  good- 
bye. When  you  brought  me  first  to  Canada  we  had 
half  a  dozen  good-byes  to  every  one  farewell.  Good- 
bye again,  and  if  they  don't  call  you  they  will  deserve 
wliat  they  lose." 

Thus  spoke  my  wife,  and  thus  was  I  despatched 
on  the  mission  that  was  big  with  moment. 

It  was  a  wondrous  hour  that  brought  to  us  the 
invitation    which    I    was    now   proceeding  to  accept. 


(I 


lO 


ST.  CVrHBE.,T-S  Of  THE    WEST 


Not  that  we  were  unhappy  because  our  .alan-  wa, 
a^all;    we  had  „„t   Uved  by  broad  alone,  and  I 
soula  were  well  eouteut.     But  .ny  wife  b„d  delirio  s 
™,ou,w, oh  she  affirmed  were  saue  and  roasonabt 
of    her    husband',   coming  yoi   into   hi,   own,   and 
■n  ulgea     every    now    and    then     in    ravage    and 

wh  oh  m.sflt  was  m  n.y  being  the  minister  of  a 
httie  church  which  afforded  a  Uttle  sala^r  and  pro- 
voked a  little  fame.  ^ 

Her  other  days  had  been  spent  in  luxury  and  amid 
he  rehnoment  and  the  pleasures  which  money  only 
can  pro„de  And  when,  our  wedding-day  drawing 
-ar  apace.  I  sent  her  n>y  budget  letter,  bitterly 
revealing  unpecunious  facts  at  which  I  had  before 
hut  darkly  hinted,  and  warning  her  of  all  th! 
aacrifioo  which  lay  beyond,  she  replied  with  veil  n 
re,™d,at,on  of  any  fears,  and  in  that  hour  madrme 

_Choese  and  kisses,"  wrote  she.  "are  considered 
g«.d  fare  m  ny  South  land  for  all  who  have  ooher 
resources  m  their  hearts."  And  I  .nentaUy  averred 
that  half  of  that  would  be  enough  for  me 

And  so  we  went  ahead-oh,  progresaive  step  I 
And  we  were  never  poor  again. 

But  there  came  a  more  heroic  hour.     It  was  h-,rd 

q."t     mpossible.  for  the  note    I   bad    endorsed  was 
handed  m  for  suit     So  I  told  her  one  twilight  hour 


i 


THE   TURN  OF  2HE  TIDE  „ 

that  our  already  limited  income  must  be  shared  with 
an  uuromantic  creditor.  There  wae  a  little  tightening 
of  the  hps.  then  of  the  arms,  then  of  those  mutual 
heart  cords  entangled  in  their  eternal  root 

We  were  boarding  then,  three  rooms  in  a  family 

hotel    and  when   I  returned  next  day  at  evening  I 

found  everything-books,  furniture,  piano-all  moved 

to  a  room  upon  the  topmost  storey.     I  was  directed 

hither    by    the  smiling   landlord,   more   enlightened 

than  I.  and  I  entered  with  furtive  misgivings  in  my 

Boul  and  with  visions  of  that  spacious  Southern  home 

before  my  rueful  eyefe. 

But  she  was  there,  radiant  and  triumphant,  still 
flushed  with  exercise  of  hand  and  heart,  viewing 
proudly  her  proof  of  a  new  axiom  that  two  or  more 
bodies  may  occupy  the  same  space  at  .ue  selfsame 
time. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  didn't  come  before."  she  said. 

I  wanted  to  be  all  settled  before  you  saw  it  This 
la  just  as  good  as  we  had  before,  and  only  half  the 
pnce.  Isn't  it  cosy?  And  everything  just  fits. 
And  we  are  away  from  all  the  noise.  And  look  at 
that  lovely  view.  And  now  we  can  pay  off  that 
norrid  note.     Aren't  you  glad  ? " 

"But.  Emmeline.  my  heart  breaks  to  see  you 
caged  like  this.  It  is  noble  of  you,  just  like  you,  but 
I  cannot  forgive  myself  that  I  have  brought  you  to 
tins,  *aid  I.  my  voice  trembling  with  pain  and 
joy.  ^ 


:.'  Sr.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

"Why.  dcAr  one,  how  can  you  speak  li'-o  that  I 
We  have  everything  here,  and  each  other  too,  and  we 
shaU  be  caged  together." 

I  kissed  that  girlish  face  again  and  blessed  the 
gift  of  Heaven,  murmuring  only,  in  tones  that  could 
not  be  heard,  "He  setteth  the  solitary  in  families." 
and  as  we  went  down  together  I  wondered  if  that 
Buddon  elevation  had  not  brought  us  nearer  heaven 
than  we  had  been  below. 

It  was  largely  owing  to  this  lion-hearted  courage 
that  I  now  found  myself  swiftly  borne  towards  the 
vacant  pulpit  which  yawned  in  stately  expectation 
of  Its  weekly  candidate. 

^  The  invitation  "to  conduct  divine  services  in 
St.  Cuthbert's,  whose  pulp't  is  now  vacant,"  had 
come  unsought  from  the  k.rk  session  of  that  distant 
temple. 

St.   Cuthbert's    was   the    stately   cathedral    of   all 
adjoining   Presbyterianism.     It    was    the    pride    and 
crown  of   a  town    which  stood    in    prosperous    con- 
tentment upon  the  verge    of   cityhood.     Its    history 
was  great  and  honourable;  its  traditions  warlike  and 
evangelical;   its  people  intelligent  and  intense.     Its 
vast  area    was  famed    for    its  throng   of    acute  and 
reflective    hearers,  almost  every  man    of    whom  was 
a    sermon -taster,    while    its    officers    were    the   ac- 
knowledged possessore  of  letters  patent  to  the  true 
ecclesiastical  nobility.     In  my  student  days,  medals 
tna     scholarships    were    never    quoted    among    the 


t. 


THE   TURN  OF  THE   TIDE  3 

trophies    of  our    diviaity  men  if   it  could  be  justly 

said    of  anyone  that  he   had   preached   twice  before 

the    hard    heads    of    St.    Cuthbert'a.     This    triumj  b 

was   recited    with   the    same    reverent  air   as    when 

men  used  to  say,  "  He  preached  before  the  Queen." 

Some  hundreds  of  miles  must  be  traversed  before 

I  reached  the  place,  but  only  some  four-and-twenty 

hours  before  I  reached  the  time,  of  my  trial  sermons. 

Therefore  did  I  convert  my  car   into    a    study   and 

my  unsteady  knee  into  a  desk,  giving  myself  to  the 

rehearsal  of  those  discourses  by  which  I  was  to  stand 

or   fall     Every  weak    hand    thereof   I    laboured    to 

strengthen,  and  every  feeble  knee  I  endeavoured  to 

confirm.     And  what  motley  hours  were  those  I  spent 

on  that  fast-flying  train !     All  my  reflections  tended 

to  devotion,  but  yet  my  errand  was  throbbing  wiih 

ambition. 

Whereupon  I  fell  into  a  strange  and  not  un- 
profitable reverie,  painfully  striving  to  separate  my 
thoughts,  the  sheep  from  the  goats,  and  to  reconcile 
them  the  one  to  the  other.  I  knew  well  enough 
the  human  frame  to  be  persuaded  that  ambition 
could  not  altogether  be  cast  out  from  the  spirit  of 
a  man,  wL  led  me  uo  reflect  upon  its  possible 
place  and  \  pose  if  controlled  by  a  master -hand 
beyond  the  hand  of  time.  I  strove  to  discover  my 
inmost  motive,  far  behind  all  other  aims,  and  consoled 
myself  with  the  hope  that  God  might  make  it  the 
dominant    and    sovereign    one,   to    which    all    others 


'"■•- 


M 


ST.  cumBEjirs  of  tjjb  west 


i 


Mhamedly  minietering  a„to  God      A„,i  r         ,  • 
was  from  H^sdf,  and  that  H   ^aV  l,!   hT  'i"^ 

Onward  rushed  the  hni.™    .„j 
train  in  it.    A  "■  ""''  ™"»ni  rolled  tie 

tram  m  its   desperate  struggle  with    them,  tiU   the 
^ttog  sun.  ^.torious  over  bo.h,  re„,i„de,i  me'ha 

-.Hedaudr;.pai:rje  :-—:-,: 
well-worn  vahse,  settliiio   mveolf   f  .  .         ' 

delicious  baths  of  thou,,,  lo?;°,'"'  .°"^  °'  "'"»« 

the  farther  side  of  J'  '"''  ""^"^'^^  ™'^-  "" 

to  Ltl '1""  bTr  '°  "■"^^^  -^  -^"^  »"<> 
«-u  iorecasc  the  probfjble  r»ynr,none-<;  rf  r) 


I: 


THE   TURN  OF  THE   TIDE 


15 


vvhf  i  »  rich  Scotch  voice  broke  in  upon  me  with 
tho  urimistukable  inquiry,  "  And  where  micht  ye  be 
^taein  ? " 

I  rtsponded  with  tho  name  of  New  Jedburgh, 
asRiirnJur.:  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  bene  only  upon  a 
welcome  visit  to  long-separated  friends.  But  I  had 
iGckoned  without  my  host.  My  interrogator  was  a 
Scot,  witli  iho  Scot's  incurable  curiosity,  always  to  be 
estimated  by  the  indiirereuce  of  his  air.  If  his  face 
bo  eloquent  of  profound  unconcern,  then  may  you 
know  that  a  fever  of  inquisitiveness  is  burning  at  his 
heart 

My  questioner  seemed  to  scarcely  listen  for  my 
answer,  yet  a  tutored  eye  could  tell  that  he  was  camp- 
ing on  my  trail. 

His  next  interrogation  was  launched  with  courteous 
composure :  "  Ye'U  no'  be  the  man  wha'a  expeckit  in 
St.  Cuthbert'a  ower  the  Sabbath  ? " 

I  now  saw  that  this  was  no  diluted  Scotsman. 
Bied  on  Clunadian  soil,  he  was  yet  original  and  pure. 
He  had  struck  the  native  Scottish  note,  the  ecclesi- 
astic .  Uke  all  his  countrymen,  ha  had  a  native 
lasto  ror  a  minister.  His  insoiricts  v/ere  towards  the 
Kirk,  and  for  all  things  akin  to  Psalm  or  Presbytery 
he  intuitively  took  the  scene,  i  have  maintained  to 
this  day  that  he  sjiiircd  my  sermons  from  afar,  unde- 
ceived by  the  worldly  flavour  of  my  rusty  bag. 

I  collected  myself  heroically,  and  replied  that  T  was 
iooidng  forward  to  the  discharge  of  tlie  high  duty  to 


ti-. 


f6 


ST.  CUTHBERT^s  OF  THE   WEST 


wh,nh   ho   had   referred.     Upon    thi,   admission    be 
moved  nearer,  a,  a  great  lawyer  ,talk,  h.,  ,„„rry  i, 

-tn^tho   look  0,  one   talcing   „;„..  and    then   .aid 

"  I'm  no'  an  elder  in  that  kirk  " 

ation^oTr"  ""■■  ""  '■  """^  "  8'—  «-  -ton- 
«t.on  of  surprise  t.,  conacience  would  permit 

^^^_  ^I^^mW^an  elder,"  he  repeated     •■  But  I  gang  .,1 

Then  followed  a  pause,  which  I  dared  t»  break  with 
'.be  remark.  ■•  I  .„  told  it  is  a  .p.eious  edifice  " 

•rrew"'^  "™"'  "'  "'^'  "^    "    '»  ^^  '"at  all 

^oJ.rthl-thetr^'^  ''■"-'''--..» 
I  nodded  syn.pathetieallj.,  trying  to  convey  my  sen^e 

of  both  elders  and  precentor. 

-Ye  wud  say,  to  luik  at  me,  that  I'm  no'  an  office- 
seeker,  an'  ye'r.  richt     But  I  baud  an  office  for  I' 

This  time  I  smiled  as  if  light  had  come  to  me  .,nd 
=  one  who  has  been  reassured  in  bis  beUef  in  a!;" 
ruling  Providence. 

"  Wliat  o^ce  do  you  hold  ? "  said  I. 

"Ye  wudna  guess  in  a  twalmonth.     I'm  no*  the 
treasurer,  as  y.'ro  thinkin'-Im  the  beadle." 


THE   TURN  OF  THE   TIDE 


J  7 


I  u.tered  a  brief  eulogy  u{)on  the  honour  and 
resix)nability  of  that  position,  pointing  out  that  the 
beadle  iad  a  dignity  all  his  own,  as  well  as  the  elders 
and  othtf  oflficers  of  the  kirk. 

He  endorsed  my  views  with  swift  complacent  nods. 

"  That'?  what  I  aye  think  o'  when  I  see  the  el^erh: 
on  the  Stbbnth  mornin',"  said  he ;  "  forbye,  there's  a 
wlieen  o'  titm,  but  wha  ever  heard  tell  o'  raair  than 
ae  beadle?  And  what's  mair,  I  had  raither  be  a 
doorkeeper  in  the  Lord'a  hooeo  than  dwall  in  tents  o' 
sin.  Them'3  Dauvit's  words,  and  they  ye  come  to 
me  when  I  compare  mydel'  wi'  the  elders." 

I  hurriecly  commended  his  reference  to  the 
Scriptures,  at  the  same  time  avoiding  any  share  in  his 
rather  significint  classification,  remarking  on  the  other 
hand  that,  elders  had  their  place,  and  that  authority 
was  indispensable  in  all  churches,  ana  the  very 
essence  of  the  Presbyterian  system. 

He  interrupted  me,  fearing  he  had  been  misunder- 
stood. 

"  Mind  ye,"  he  declared  fervently,  "  I'm  no'  settin' 
mysel'  up  even  wi'  the  minister.  I  regard  him  as 
mair  important  than  me — far  mair  important,"  ha 
affirmed,  with  reckless  humility,  "  but  the  elders,  they 
are  juist  common  fowk  like  mysel'.  An*  at  times 
they  are  mair  than  common.  Me  an'  the  minister 
bear  a  deal  frae  the  elders.  He  aye  bids  me  to 
bear  wi'  them,  an'  I  aye  bid  him  no'  to  mind.  I 
tell  him  whiles  that  we'll  meet  an'  we'll  greet  whaur 


I8 


Sr.  CUTUnEKT-S  OF  THE   WEST 


.«  I  he  church  wherein  he  exerci«l  hi,  giftsand  n.ag- 

dcrs  t„r  the  t,„>e,  reverted  to  the  i„,u..,  b,  h.d  seen 
fit  pievioualy  to  ignore. 

"  Ye  were  aakin'  me  uboot  the  kirk." 
"Yes."  said  I  in  a  chastened  voice""  I  »sked  you  if 
»t  was  not  very  lar^rf,."  ^ 

"Thae  w„,   no^'yir   exact  worde,  b«l    I    ken  vir 
moana..      U'e  a  ,..™'  kirk,  St.  Cuthberfs,  an'  yel 
«ooa   to  speak    „.,t_n„-   to  yell    ye  ken,  for    I'm 
n.gh  <leof.„e,|  wi'  the  rcarin'  o'  tha  candulate,  ein'  oo" 
"rk  was  r,re,.cl.«l  vacant  by  the  IVeslytery.     Wnna 

ye  s,t  doon.  and  hae  the  sough  »■  Sinai  in  yir  di,coorse, 

«l«.aUy  ,u  the  ™,„,i„'  diet;  an'  aye  back  up  the 
Scnpturo.,  w,'  the  cateci.,s.n,  a.r  hac  a  word  or  twa 
a  o„t  the  Cuvoaant...,  t,„,,„  ,,  ,„„,,  ^.^^^  ^^^^.^ 
w.     heir    blutd,  ye    ken.     te'll    tak'    nu.   advice  a. 
Undly;  ,t  a  „,„„  th,„  likely  we'll  never  meet  a^ain 
gm  the  morrow's  gone." 

I  thanked  him  for  hi.s  counsel  and  reached  for  my 

bag,  at  the  signal  of  escaping  steam. 

The  car  door  had  just  closed  behind  me  when  I  felt 

-  hand    upon    n.y  arm    and    heard    a    now    familiar 

voice — 

"An'  diuna  pray  ower  muckle  for  yir  ain  devotod 


THE   TURN  OF  THE  TIDE 


«9 


pool's 


folk  at  hame;  an'  diuna  a&k  the  King  au'  Head  o' 
the  Kirk  to  fetch  till  us  a  wise  uuder  •  shepherd 
o'  the  flock." 

With  a  word  of  additional  acknowledgment  I 
stepped  on  Xa  the  station  platfor  .,  but  my  parley 
with  a  burly  cabman  waa  inlenuplcd  by  the  same 
voice  whispering  in  my  ear — 

"  Ye  micht  mind  the  elders  in  yir  prayer ;  gin  thi»y 
were  led  mair  into  the  licht  it  wa<:l  dae  nac  harr 
onybody." 


i^Mi^l^ 


f 


n 


A   IIAH   WJIH   A   SlICHBr 

rPHERE  van  no  oae  about  the  .tatm„  f^      . 
-•■      me  and  none  u>  direct  b,,f  ,1  ""™™ 

■tare  and  wonder.  '    "'  """^  "'^  "'"'7  t" 

•b-d  repair  I  l'i^„''°'"^  >»  "'■-''  '»  «.id  ' 
.parent  iac.  o,  IZZ^toTT:'  ''' 
moderator  had  reminded  me  ta   hi        !  °""'' 

">«  Wk  of  St,  C„thbeH>rwero  nl""'^""'  ""' 
"Dtrained  to  any  degree  JZr  ""•""""''^  Scotol, 
but  famous  JthXour  "T  ,''^'"«'■''''"«• 
clo«  of  their  miniatercaJl  '°'""'  "'  "" 

-lodiou,  title  of  the  hte  wUc     wl't  T  "^ 

iieautiful  for  situation   it   proved   fn   k 
among  its  sentinels  of  oak,  upon    L  I  '  t''  T""'' 
"even    which    garr.oned    f ^      T  '^^"'^  ^^  °' 

gHrnsoned  ^he    town.     The    signs    of 


,4  MAN  WITH  A  SECRET 


t\ 


wealth  and  good  taste  were  everywhere  about,  and 
my  probationer's  heart  was  beating  fast  when  I 
pulled  the  polished  silver  knob  whose  patrician 
splendour  had  survived  the  invasion  of  all  electrical 
upstarts. 

I  heard  the  answering  bell  far  within,  breaking 
again  and  again  into  its  startled  cry,  and  my  soul 
answered  it  with  peals  of  such  humiliation  as  is 
known  only  to  the  man  whose  heart  affords  a  home 
to  that  ill -matched  pair,  the  discomfiture  of  the 
candidate  and  the  pride  of  the  Presbyterian. 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  master  of  the  house, 
Michael  Blake,  a  man  of  forty-five  or  so,  the  wealthy 
senior  of  New  Jedburgh's  greatest  manufacturing 
firm. 

I  suppose  he  looked  first  at  me,  but  my  firso 
sensation  was  of  his  keen  eye  swiftly  falling  on  the 
shabby  travelling-bag  in  my  left  hand,  my  right 
kept  disengaged  for  any  fviendly  overture  which  might 
await  me. 

Oh,  the  shame  and  the  anguish  of  those  swift 
glances  towards  one's  travelling-bag!  Can  no  kind 
genius  devise  a  scheme  for  their  temporary  conceal- 
ment such  as  the  modern  book  agent  has  brought  to 
its  perfection,  full  armed  beneath  the  treacherous 
shelter  of  his  cioak  ? 

I  broke  the  silence :  "  Have  I  the  pleasure  of  ad- 
dressing Mr.  Blake  ? " 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  name,"  responded  a  rich,  soulful 


aa 


ST.  CPTJ^B££r-s  OJr  rH£   yyjSST 


li^charge,  I  betook  Jaelt  !o    h        """"""^  ""^  "> 
and  replioj-  ^  ""  "««=•««<»■  of  ide«^ 

"I  am   to  preach   in    St    r!i.t»>K„.>    ^ 
looping  that  this  xnight  sugge't^  ht  1    'T"°"'' 
be  had  sought.  ^  *^^^  mformation 

Swift  and  beautiful  was  fho  * 

-ui  of  hoapitaat,  ;i;r  ffoL  ttr  ":•  "■; 

secretive  though  it  wa.  m.  "''''"=»'  'f*™  ""d 
to  hold  .,  MushLrhagTt  r  T\'^  '^'^'^ 
"■e  with  all  the  music  of  I  .  "'"'  "* ™ 

glance.  He  looked  aZe  with  Tt ,  ."?  "  '"^ 
which  true  oordialitycmt"  and  ,  /'™'"°^ 
hand  ia  his  mv  i,.    .  ,  "''°°  '"'  took  mv 

ita  X       "'  '""  ''^P''*  '"  «"«  -o™  shelter  of 

herl  ••  he7aid  t  tlT""'/"  ^°"^  ■^°»  «"  -'»- 
'    ^  ^*^^'  *^  the  quietest  of  tones      TT^  ^ 

gently  within  the  massive  ^.  .  '^''^'^  '"^ 

I  knew  that  I  was ^  hi.    T^  "'  "  ''^^  "°^^^^ 
""  -^  ^^s  m  the  custody  of  love 

A  grandfather's    clock    nrn,,^        i     ' 
sense  of  venerable  faithllnerl"       T''  *"  "^ 
the  momeote  with  hospiu  ^  LltTC"^'  °* 
faced  lassie  showed  i  J  f,  ^  pleasant- 

-e.uin,m::iir -::«""--'- 

Aly  host  justified  mv  everv  ,•m,^»     •  ^ 

disposed  of  the  nl.in  7,^"^^"^  impression.     While  we 
the  plain  but  appetising  fare,  whose  crown 


A  MAN  WITH  A  SECRET 


n 


nd 

ae 
to 


was  the  speckled  trout  which  his  skill  had  lured  from 
home,  he  Bubmitted  me  to  the  kindliest  of  cross- 
examinations  concerning  my  past,  my  scholarship,  my 
evangelical  positions,  my  household,  and  much  else 
that  nestled  among  them  all.  Throughout,  I  felt  the 
charm  and  the  power  of  his  gentleness,  and  under 
its  secret  influence  I  yielded  up  what  many  another 
would  have  sought  in  vain.  Some  natures  there  are 
which  search  you  as  the  sun  laya  bare  the  flowers, 
making  for  itself  a  pathway  to  their  inmost  heart, 
every  petal  opening  before  its  siege  of  love. 

But  reciprocity  there  was  none.  His  lips  seemed 
to  stand  like  inexorable  sentinels  before  his  heart, 
in  league  with  its  great  secret,  the  guardians  of  a 
past  which  no  man  had  heard  revealed.  One  or  two 
tentative  attempts  to  discover  his  antecedents  were 
foiled  by  his  charming  taciturnity. 

"  I  came  from  the  old  country  many  years  ago," 
was  the  only  information  he  vouchsafed  rne. 

The  evening  was  spent  in  conversation  which  never 
flamed  but  never  flagged.  My  increasing  opportunity 
for  observation  served  but  to  confirm  my  conviction 
that  I  was  confronted  with  a  man  who  had  one  great 
and  separate  secret  hidden  within  the  impenetrable 
recesses  of  a  contrite  heart.  He  said  little  about  St. 
Cuthbert's  or  the  morrow,  his  most  eigniticant  obser- 
vation being  trt  the  eiTecc  that  tlte  serious-minded  of 
the  kirk  were  looking  forward  to  my  appearance  with 
hopeful  interest. 


'4 


1 


|i 


'^T.  CUTUBEUrs  OP  THE   ivrs^ 


After  he  had  bidden  me  c.ood-nJ^rh^  i,«  „     • 

"Will  voH  "  ^'''  °'  "'"  '""=-■■"  ^y- 

W'll  you    do   me   a   kindness   in    the   kirk  f^ 
morrow ,  "he  .aid.  with  ahnost  puthctie  e^™* 

I  responded  fervently  that  nothing  could  be  a Tater 
jnndne.  to  .ysel,  than  the  sense  li  one  hestoCt 

Psatal  I!' ,!":■:". ^-^--th,„st 
g^v«  '^s  m  the  evenmg  the  paraphrase— 

•Come  let  ns  to  the  Lord  our  God 
With  contrite  hearts  return.' 

My   mother  first   tauaht    me   that"  >,o      7^  ^       • 

t^efir.,uiveroHhehpi;ettdse:.^nTrh::! 
learned  it  anew  from  God." 

He  then  swiftly  departed,  little  knowing  that  ho 

-est  words  r:r,ir;—:nr^: 

ocean  laves  the  shore.  '   '^^ 


ht 


-my 


111 


OUR   MUTUAL   TRIAL 


rriHE  Sabbath  morning  broke  serene  and  fair. 
-*-  Thus  also  awoke  my  spirit,  still  invigorated  by 
its  contact  with  one  I  felt  to  be  an  honest  and  God- 
fearing man,  whose  ardour  I  knew  was  chastened  by 
a  long-waged  conflict  of  the  soul. 

Our  morning  worship  was  led  by  Mr.  Blake  him- 
self, who  besought  the  Divine  blessing  upon  the 
labours  of  him  who  was  "  for  this  day  '  our  servant 
for  Jesus'  sake.' " 

We  walked  to  the  church  together,  mingling  with 
the  silent  and  reverent  multitude  pressing  towards 
a  common  shriue. 

As  he  left  me  at  the  vestry  door,  he  said 
earnestly — 

"  Forget  that  you  are  a  candidate  of  St.  Cuthbert's, 
and  remember  that  you  are  a  minister  of  God." 

The  beadle  recognised  me  with  a  confidential  nod, 
inspected  the  pulpit  robe  which  I  had  donned,  and 
taking  up  the  "  Books,"  he  led  the  way  to  the  pulpit 
steps  with  an  air  which   might   have   provoked  the 

25 


26 


fe 


i*i 


felv'j; 


V   .7^^-r 


Sr.  CVTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WSST 


^  uij,    view  a   bea   of  expectant   facee    vast 

beyond  my  utmost  dn.m,  Ihoy  wore  ,te  1 1 
e.lenoe,  a  s,.e,.ee  so  intense  that  it  left  the  Ipl  ^ 
ou  my  m.„d  of  an  ocean,  majestic  in  its  3^ 
grandeur;  ,„r  the  .tiller  y„„  Und  the  sea  .iZl 
faces  the  more  reasonably  may  you  dread  the  t  u,  h 
of  human  waves.  irougn 

The  wonder  of  the  reverent  and  the  sneer  of  the 
»™rnful  have  alike  heeu  prompted  by  the  prea  hi 
o    a  oanidute      Something  strange  and  JongrZ 
s    ms  to  pertam  to  the  performance  of  a  man  whose 
acknowledged   purpose  is   the  dual  one   of   wiL"  1 
ajke  the  soul,  and  the  smiles  of  men.     He  seek""! 
all  preachers  are  supposed  to  do.  the  upli,         ',, 
hearers   souls,  while  his  very  appearance  \  a  pLd 
of  h.s  des,re  to  so  con.mend  himself  as  to  be  t,d 
favounte  and  their  choice.     Much  hath  been  wri  t™ 
and  more  hath  been  said,  o.'  the  hnmiUation  to  wl^Th 
he  must  submit  who  occupies  a  vacant  pulpit  a.t  e 
applicant  for  a  vacant  kirk. 

I  fet';,"''^ "'"■  ?''°"'^  *""  "'  '°^  *"=«  "flections 
I  felt  the  force  of  none  of  them  that  radiant  Sabbaai 
".ornmg  m  St.  Cuthberfs.  My  Ualviuism,  wWch  s 
regarded  by  those  who  know  \<.  „„f  J 
aud  altogether  drastic,  pr^::  lZ:^^f^ 
-y  «tay,  and  within  its  vast  pavaion'  ^ZXt 


ih 


OUR  MUTUAL  TRIAL 


«7 


hide  as  In  the  covert  of  the  Eternal.  For  there 
surged  through  heart  and  brain  the  stately  thought 
that  such  experimental  dealings  between  a  minister 
and  a  people  might  be  sublimated  before  reverent 
eyes,  hallowed  as  a  holy  venture,  and  destined  to 
play  its  part  in  the  economy  of  God, 

His  claim  seemed  loftier  far  than  any  obiirjation 
between  my  heart  and  man,  and  so  uplifted  was  I  by 
the  sense  of  a  commission  which  even  candidature 
could  neither  invalidate  nor  deform,  that  all  sense  of 
servility,  all  cringing  thought  of  livelihood,  all  fear 
of  faltering  and  all  faltering  of  fear,  seemed  to  flee 
away  even  as  the  blasphemy  of  darkness  retreats 
before  the  .es  of  the  morn.     In  very  truth  I 

forgot  that  I  was  a  candidate  of  St.  Cuthbert's  and 
seemed  but  to  remember  that  I  was  a  minister  of 
God. 

Whether  my  sermon  was  good  or  ill  I  could  not 
then  have  told;  but  I  could  well  have  told  that  a 
victorious  secret  is  to  him  who  strives  after  earnest- 
ness of  heart,  unvexed  by  the  clamour  of  his  own 
rebellious  and  ambitious  soul. 

The  congregation  was  vast  and  reverent,  as  be- 
fitted the  purpose  of  the  hour;  the  most  careless 
eye  could  mark  the  strong  and  reflective  cast  of 
those  Scottish  faces,  whoso  native  adamant  was  but 
little  softened  by  their  sojourn  beneath  Canadian  skies. 
Reverence  scented  to  clothe  these  worshippers  like  a 
ijarmeT.t      Th^y  v.ero  33  m--:  who  bclkvcd  in   Gud, 


P' 


aS 


ST.  CUTIJ BERT'S  OF  THE    fVE.SV 


1  !! 

ll  i 


whereby  ar«  men  most  fearsome  and  yet  most  glorious 
to  look  upon.  It  was  the  foaisomeuess  of  such  a 
face,  garrisoned  in  God.  which  had  beat  back  tha 
haughty  gaze  of  .Alary  when  she  met  the  eye  of  Knox, 
burning  with  a  lire  which  no  torch  of  time  had 
kindled. 

And  when  they  sang  their  opening  Jiymn,  they 
seemed  to  stride  upwards  as  mouuLuineers.  for  they 
lifted  up  their  eyes  as  men  who  would  erst  them 
down  again  only  before  God  Himself.  From  word 
to  word  they  climbed,  and  from  line  to  line,  as  though 
each  word  or  Ime  were  some  abutting  crag  of  the 
very  hill  of  God.  Besides,  the  psalm  they  sung  was 
this — 

"  I  to  tlie  hUU  will  lift  mine  eyes 

From  whence  dotlj  come  miue  aid." 

Their  intensity  steadied  my  very  soiU.  They 
seemed  to  look  at  me  as  if  to  say.  "We  are  in 
earnest  if  you  are ;  our  kirk  is  vacant  but  our  hearts 
are  full,"  and  the  pulpit  in  which  I  stood,  and  in 
which  many  a  hapless  man  had  stood  before,  was 
hallowed  by  its  solen..  garrison  of  waiting  souls,  and 
redeemed  of  all  taint  of  treason  towards  its  sacred 
trust. 

When  I  caUed  them  unto  prayer,  tliey  answered 
as  the  forest  answers  when  the  wind  brings  it  word 
from  heaven,  save  some  venerable  few  who  rose 
erect  (as  was  their  fathers'  way),  standing  like 
sentinel   oak:,  amid    lesser   trees,  they  also    bending 


1 


OUK  MUTUAL   TRIAL 

with  an  obeisance  prompted  from  witl.in.  It  ceometi 
not  hard  to  lead  those  earnest  hearts  in  prayer— 
they  seemed  the  rather  to  lead  my  eoul  as  by  a  more 
familiar  path;  or,  to  state  the  tnith  more  utterly 
their  dovoutness  seemed  to  bear  me  on,  us  the  deep 
ocean  bears  itself  and  its  every  burden  towards  the 
shore. 

This  intensity  of  worship  pervaded  its  every  act 
They  jomed  in  the  reading  of  the  Word  as  tlM.se 
who  must  both  hear  and  see  it  for  themselves 
their  books  opening  and  closi  g  in  unison  with' 
the  larger  one  which  decked  ...eir  pulpit  like  a 
crown. 

Even    when    the    collection    was    taken    up    they 
mamtained    their    loftiness    of    poise.      It    had    been 
often   told    me    that    Scotch    folk    contribute    to    an 
offering    with     the    same    heroism    wherewith    their 
ancestors    opened     their    unshrinking    veins,    dolin. 
forth  their  money,  like  their  blood,  with  a  martyr's 
air.     But  although   I   remarked   that   some  Scottish 
eyes   followed  their   departing  coins   with  glances  of 
purenbU   tenderness,   there   was   yet  a   solemn  state- 
liness   about    the    operation  which  greatly  won    me 
even  those  who  dedicated  the  homeliest  copper  doing 
It  unabashedly,  as  if  to  the  Lord,  and  not  unto  men 

We  closed  with  the  penitential  psalm  which  Mr 
Blake  had  asked,  and  its  great  words  seemed  chargPd 
With  the  strong  reality  of  men  who  believed  in  sin 
witn    the  same  old-fashioned    earnestness  as  marked 


Mi 


30 


ST.  CUTH BERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 


..» 


their  faith  in  God.  tho  two  answering  the  one  to  the 
other  aa  deep  ealleth  unto  deep,  eternally  harmonious 
as  they  are. 

The  congregation  swayed  slowly  down  the  aisle, 
Scottishly  cold  and  still,  like  the  processional  of  the 
ice  in  the  springtime.  They  reminded  me  of  noble 
bergs  driftin,i»  through  the  Straits  of  lielle  Isle.  It 
was  a  Presbyterian  tlood,  and  every  man  a  floe.  Tint 
I  su.spected  mightily  that  they  were  nevertheless  thrj 
product  of  the  spring,  and  somehow  felt  that  they 
dwelt  near  tho  coniines  of  the  summer.  The  fire 
which  warmed  their  hearts  had  touched  my  own,  and 
in  that  very  moment  wherein  they  turned  their 
backs  upon  me,  I  pursued  them  with  surrendering 
tenderness,  and  coveted  for  my  own  the  rugged 
faithfulness  which  hath  now  enriched  these  many 
golden  years. 

One  or  two  turned  to  glance  at  me,  but  when  their 
gaze  met  mine  they  despatched  their  eyes  on  some 
impartial  quest,  as  if  caressing  their  noble  chorcb  or 
looking  for  some  lingering  friend. 

The  precentor,  whose  place  was  m  a  kind  of 
songster's  pulpit  just  below  me,  was  wreathed  in  the 
complacent  air  of  a  wan  who  haa  discharged  a  lofty 
duty  and  has  done  it  well.  He  had  borne  himself 
throughout  aa  tiie  real  master  of  the  entire  service, 
and  as  one  who  had  ruu'd  from  an  untitled  throne. 
He  caat  me  one  or  two  swift  glances,  such  as  would 
become  an  enguioer  who  had  brouf.-ht  his  train  or  a 


OUR  MUTUAL   TRIAL  3, 

pilot  who  had  brought  his  ship  to  the  deflirod  havcu. 
I  returned  liie  overture  with  a  look  of  huinblo  i^'ruli- 
tudo,  and  ho  thereupon  relaxed  as  one  welj  content 
with  what  was  his  hard-earned  duo.  but  notliin^,'  more. 
I  have  well  learned  einco  tlien  that  by  so  much^'tts  one 
values  one's  peace,  by  that  much  must  one  reverence 
the  precentor. 

When  I  regained  the  vestry  I  found  it  peopled 
with  six  or  seven  elders  (a  great  and  sweltering 
ixjpulation),  but  no  word  of  favour  or  approval  escaped 
a  single  Scottish  lip.  Their  hour  had  not  yet  como ; 
but  I  knew  it  not,  and  was  proportionately  aint  down 
by  what  seemed  to  me  a  silent  rhetoric  of  scorn.  Jiut 
it  was  the  will  of  Heaven  to  somewhuc  set  aside  wliit 
1  unknowingly  estimated  to  be  the  verdicc  of  indifibr- 
ence.  The  beadle,  as  one  with  whom  I  had  had  a 
past,  beckoned  mo  without,  whispering  that  a  '•  wumman 
body,"  a  stranger,  desired  to  speak  with  me  in  an 
adjoining  room. 

Her  story  was  short  and  sad ;  her  request,  the 
sobbing  entreaty  of  a  broken  heart  that  1  uould  pray 
for  her  darling  and  her  prodigal,  her  first-born, 
wandering  in  that  farthest  of  all  countries  which  lies' 
beyond  the  confines  of  a  mother's  ken.  I  answered 
her  with  a  glance  which  owned  the  kinship  of  her 
tears,  and  pledged  it  with  a  hand  which,  t  -k  God, 
has  ever  found  its  warmest  welcome  in  the  hand  of 
woe.  Then  I  went  back  to  the  vestry  unafraid. 
"ior  what,"  thought  I,  "can  these  elders  do  either 


1 

{ 
i 

111  i 


^"^m 


H 


3* 


ST.  CUTHBEI^rs  OF  THE   WEST 


for  mo  or  against  me.  if  f  am  reaUy  a  priesfc  unt 
God    for  one  mother's  son  f      Thia  ! 

,i^„H      <  -^"^^  woman  has  avi 

dently    forgotten    that    I    am    «    «     aa  ! 

p»fKK    i..         ,  A    am    a    candidate   of    St 

Cuthberts.  nnl    has  remenibered    only  that  I  am 
mmister  of  God."  °^  * 


Bl!  unto 
las  evi- 
of  St. 
'  am  a 


rv 


OUR   MUTUAL   VERDICT 

rjlHE  evening  service  was  like  unto    that   of   the 

this  stZr/;.'"'  "'"  ''^"^"°^  '^^^^  '"^'^  I  B- 
this  sturdy  folk,  mountain-like,  in  the  light   of  the 

a  ttmg  instead  of  the  rising  sun.     But  still  no  word 
or  hmt  revealed  to  me  the  favour  or  disfavour  lih 

St  Cuthberts.  save  only  that  one  man  ventured  to 

zir"  ^"  ^--^-^- - -^^  Of  Thoi: 

I   hurriedly  exclaimed,   "Is  that  so?"  in  a  tone 
which  all  too  plainly  implored  him  to  go  on 

"Yes,"  said  he.     «  When  ye  blawed  yir  nose,  if  ma 
een  had  been  shut,  I  cud  hae  swore  it  was  Chammers  " 
whereupon  the  last  state  of  me  was  worse  than  the  firsi 
But  I  was  a  little  comforted  in  overhearing  one 
Scot  say  to  another  as  they  passed  me  on  their  home- 
ward way   "He's  no'  to  be  expeckit  to  preach  like 
yon  man  frae  Hawick."  to  which  the  other  replied 
an    1  caught  his  eloping  words.  "  But  there  was  a  bit' 
at  the  end  that  wasna  bad." 


;:  A 


"  i 


34         Sr.  CUTHBERrs  OF  THE   WEST 

This  WM  but  a  thin  gruel  to  satisfy  one's  wondering 
8oul,  but  it  was  shortly  thickened  by  the  beadle.  He 
was  waiting  for  us  at  Mr.  Blake's,  wishing  instruction 
about  some  task  that  fell  within  his  duties,  but  he 

managed  to  have  a  word  with  me 

"I  can.     tell  what  waits  ye.  but,  gin  ye'd  like  to 
see  through  tlie  manse,  I'll  tak*  ye  through  the  morn." 
I  thanked  him.  declining,  but  secretly  blessed  him 
and  inwardly  rejoiced. 

At  worship  that  night  my  gentle  host  read  the 
otory  the  prodigal,  and  when  we  knelt  to  pray 
he  repeated  twice,  "  I  will  arise  and  go  unto  my 
Father,"  and  in  the  pause  I  felt  that  the  wave  of  some 
besetting  memory  was  beating  on  the  shore;  more 
and  more  was  it  borne  in  upon  me  that  this  man  had 
a  past,  shared  only  by  himself  and  God  and  someone 
else  unknown. 

The  morning  witnessed  my  departure  from  New 
Jedburgh,  and  from  the  window  of  the  train  I  watched 
its  fast-retreating  hills,  so  often  trodden  by  me  since 
with  the  swinging  stride  of  joy,  or  clambered  with  the 
heavy  step  of  care. 

There  is  neither  time  nor  space  to  set  down  in 
detail  all  that  followed.  Let  it  suffice  to  say  that 
while  they  were  musing  the  fire  burned,  and  the  good 
folk  of  St.  Cuthbert's  slowly  and  solemnly  resolved  to 
call  me  to  their  ancient  church. 

They  were  scandalised  by  a  report,  which  spread 
with  pestilential  ease,  that  I  had  known  my  wife  but 


•__jL.J''4vi*i^'  ^l^ 


OUR  MUTUAL    VERDICT  31; 

three  short  weeks  when  I  asked  her  to  walk  the  long 
walk  with  me.  This  and  other  rumours  provoked 
them  to  despatch  a  sage  and  ponderous  officer  to  the 
distant  scene  of  my  labours,  that  he  might  investigate 
them  on  the  spot.  He  came,  he  saw,  he  was  con- 
quered. My  wife  lassoed  him  at  a  throw.  He  went 
home  in  fetters,  his  eloquence  alone  unloosed.  Long 
before  the  night  on  which  they  should  meet  to  call, 
he  had  brandished  his  opinion  as  to  the  wisdom  of  my 
delirious  haste. 

"  But  did  he  mak'  his  choice  so  redeek'lus  sudden  ?  " 
he  was  asked. 

"I  dinna  ken,"  he  answered  tropically,  "and  I 
-linna  care.  If  he  bided  three  weeks,  he  bided  ower 
lang.  I  kent  that  fine  when  ance  I  saw  her.  Koo, 
I  pit  it  till  ye,  gin  ye  were  crossiu'  a  desert  place,  an' 
ye  saw  the  Rose  o'  Sharon  afore  ye,  wad  ye  no'  pluck 
It  gin  ye  micht,  and  pluck  it  quick  ?  I  pit  it  till  ye." 
And  they  answered  him  not  a  word,  for  there  is  no 
debater  like  the  heart. 

I  was  told  in  after  days  that  my  historic  friend  the 
beadle  canvassed  for  me  night  and  day,  layinrr  mighty 
stress  upon  the  fact  that  he  knew  me  wel^since  he 
had  travelled  with  me,  assuring  every  ear  that  I  was 
"uncommon  ceevil,"  and  proudly  layiug  bare  the 
independent  scorn  with  which  I  had  met  his  proposi- 
>n  to  inspect  the  manse. 

"  But  we  micht  get  him  yet,"  he  concluded.  "  dn  we 
guxig  richt  abooc  it" 


V 

I 


36         ST.  CVTHBEltrs  OP  THE   WEST 

These  testimonials,  together  with  his  plaintive 
appeal  to  be  relieved  of  the  respo..,  .iSv  which  the 
absence  of  a  iixed  minister  thre»  upon  huu.,.,  went 
tar  to  confirm  the  wavering. 

Nor  shall  I  linger  to  trace  th.  ,.„ri..:.g.  of  that 
ponderous  machinery  whereby  I  was  at  last  installed 
as  the  mmister  of  St.  Cuthberfs  Church  Even  the 
^eat  assemblage  which  gathered  to  welcome  us,  with 
.ts  mfimte  mtroductions,  ito  features  social,  devotional, 
and  deputat.onal,  its  addresses  civic  and  ecclesiastical, 
must  be  dismissed  with  a  word. 

It  reminded  me  of  nothing  so  much  as  of  the 
laanchmg  of  a  ship,  and    beneath  aU  its  tumult  of 
artillery  there  thrummed  the  deep  undertone  of  joy 
For  St.  Cuthberfs,  contrary  to  its  historic  way,  S 

amid  the  smoke  of  battle,  and  he  had  gone  forth  i 
Napoleon    went,  with  a   martial   record  which   the 

Zr^'b'/r  r°  '"'  ''^^  =^™'^  "-"-hed. 
Tk  ^  .  r  *'  ''^''"'  *'  '"""""^  g™J7  equal, 
and  beclouded  with  a  sublime  confusion  as  to  which 
«de  had  been  led  by  Heaven  and  which  by  Belial. 
On^thie  point,  even  now,  they  do  not  exactly  see  eye 

And  this  deep  joy,  whose  untiring  hum  (joy's  native 

voice)  nad  entwined  itself  with  every  exereL  of  Z 

exultant  gathering,  was    born   of   the   assurance  of 

etummg   harmony   and    the   welcome  calm   which 

Iciiows  the  departing   storm.     The   gentle   vines  of 


OUR  MUTUAL    VERDICT  3^ 

peace  were    beginning   to    clothe    their   scarred  and 
disfigured  Zion. 

St  Cuthberfs  hailed  chat  night  as  the  hour  of  its 
convalescence.  In  consequence,  every  speech,  even 
those  from  dry  and  desiccated  lips,  was  coloured  with 
the  melody  of  hope.  Even  hoary  jokes  and  ancestral 
atones,  kept  for  tea-meetings  as  hard  tack  is  kept  for 
the  army  and  navy,  were  disinfected  by  the  kindly 
flavour  which  brooded  like  an  April  cloud. 

And  now  it  is  my  purpose  to  set  down  as  best  I 
may  some  of  the  features  of  my  life,  and  a  few  of  my 
most  vivid  observations  among  these  remarkable  folk 
The  greater  number   of    them    had  been  born  in 
bonnie  Scotland,  and  all  of  them,  even  those  who  had 
never  seen  their  ancestral  home,  spoke  and  lived  and 
thought   as   though    they  had  just   come   from   the 
heathery  hills.     They  were  sprung  from  the  loins  of 
heroes,  the  stalwart  pioneers  from  Roxburghshire  and 
Ayrshire  and  Dumfries,  and  many  another  noble  spot 
whose  noblest  sons  had  gone  forth  to  earth's  remotest 
bound,  flaming  with  love  of  liberty  and  God.     Seventy 
years  before  they  had  settled  about  New  Jedburgh 
thinking  of  the  well-loved  Scottish  town  whose  name' 
it  bore. 

Soon  the  echoing  forest  bowed  before  their  gleaming 
«e8.  and  they  made  the  wilderness  to  blossom  like 
the  rose.     Comfort,  and  even  wealth,  came  to  them 
at  be  imperious  beck  of  mdustry.     Stom  and  earnest 
reckonmg  frivolity  a  sin,  finding  their  pleasure  in  a 


w 


38         ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

growing  capacity  for  8elf-»-enial  and  a  growing  Bcom 
of  needless  luxury,  they  cherished  in  their  blood  the 
iron  which  had  been  bequeathed  by  noble  aires. 

Hand  in  hand  with  God  like  eons  of  Knox,  they 
juilt  the  school  and  the  church  with  the  firstfruits 
of  their  toil,  disporting  themselves  again  in  their 
unforgotten  psalms,  worshipping  after  the  dear-bought 
manner  of  their  fathers,  not  a  few  of  whom  had  paid 
the  price  of  blood,  nor  deemed  it  sacrifice. 

Like  draws  to  like,  they  say.  With  St.  Cuthbert's 
this  had  certainly  been  the  case ;  for  every  minister 
who  had  served  them  heretofore  had  been  both  bom 
and  educated  in  their  motherland. 

Three  had  they  had.  The  first  was  the  Reverend 
John  Grant,  Doctor  of  Divinity,  from  Greenock ;  the 
second,  the  Reverend  James  IS^-jy  from  Aberdeen; 
the   third,  my  immediate   p.  -^or,  the  Reverend 

Henry  Alexander,  from  Glasgo 

Like  a  mountain  peak  towered  the  memory  of  tneir 
first  minister,  a  man  of  gigantic  power,  scholarly  and 
profound,  grimly  genial,  carrying  with  him  everywhere 
the  air  of  the  Eternal.  He  was  as  eloquent  almost 
as  human  lips  can  be,  magnetic  to  the  point  of 
tyranny,  and  grandly  independent  of  everything  and 
everyone  but  God.  His  fame  covered  Canada  like  a 
flood.  American  colleges  sought  the  honour  of  their 
laurel  on  his  brow,  and  from  one  of  the  best  he 
accepted  his  Doctor's  hood.  City  congregations 
coveted  him  with  pious   envy,  but  he  hearkened  to 


OUR  MUTUAL    VERDICT  3^ 

few  and  coquetted  with  none.  He  had  assumed  the 
cure  o£  St.  Cuthberfs  when  it  was  almost  entirely 
(as  It  was  still  considerably)  a  country  congregatiou 
revellmg  m  solitude  and  souls,  both  of  which  were 
nearer  here  to  Nature's  heart  than  amid  the  swelterin- 
throng.  Here  he  cherished  his  mighty  heart  and 
gave  eternal  bent  to  hearts  only  less  mighty  than 
his  own. 

"  Eemote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race 
Nor  e'er  had  changed  nor  wished  to  change  liis  place." 

Throughout  my  ministry  in  St.  Cuthberfs  the 
mention  of  his  name  was  the  signal  for  a  cloud  of 
witnesses.  Forty  years  had  elapsed  since  the  country- 
side  followed  him  to  his  grave,  shrouded  in  gown  and 
bands,  a  regalia  more  than  royal  to  their  loving  eyes 
But  they  had  guarded  his  memory  with  the  vigilance 
which  belongs  only  to  the  broken  heart,  and  the 
traditions  of  his  greatness  were  fresh  among  them 
8  till 

"  I  likit  the  ither  twa  fine,"  said  a  shrewd  sermon- 
taster  to  me  soon  after  my  arrival,  "but  their 
sermons  didna  plough  the  soul  like  the  Doctor's ;  we 
haena  had  the  faUow  grun'  turned  up  sin'  he  dee'd." 

And  so  said,  or  thought,  they  all. 


MY   KIRK    SESSION 


TTE  would  need  a  brave  and  facUe  pen  who  would 
-■-*-  venture  to  portray  the  kirk  session  of  St. 
Cuthbert's  Church.  For  any  kirk  session  is  far  from 
commonplace,  let  alone  the  session  of  such  a  church 
as  mine.  Kirk  sessions  are  the  bloom  of  Scottish 
character  in  particular  and  the  crown  and  glory  of 
mankind  in  general.  Piety,  sobriety,  severity,  these 
are  the  three  outstanding  graces  which  they  illustrate 
supremely ;  but  interlocked  with  these  are  many  other 
gifts  and  virtues  in  varying  degrees  of  culture. 

In  St.  Cuthbert's,  the  pride  of  eldership  was  chiefly 
vested  in  their  wives  and  daughters. 

"Ye  maunna  be  ower  uplifted  aboot  yir  faither's 
office,"  was  the  oft-repeated  admonition  of  the  elder's 
wife  to  the  elder's  children,  and  the  children  were  not 
slow  to  remark  that  her  words  were  cae  part  rebuke 
and  ten  parts  pride.  For  to  mothers  and  bairns  alike 
he  appeared  as  one  of  God's  kings  and  priests  when 
he  walked  down  the  aisle  with  the  vessels  of  the 
Lord. 


•  '  W-» '  " 


y*. 


.,#•  „ 


'V    '      r* 


lva«HB 


My  KIRK  SESSION  4, 

Many    of    these    men    were    poor,   grandly   and 
pathetically  poor,  but  none  was  poor  enough  to  appear 
at    tne    sacramental    board    without    his    "blacks," 
radiant   with    the   lustre    of   open    love   and    sacred 
sacrifice.     This  I  afterwards  learned  was  their  wives' 
doing,  and  marvellous  in  my  eyes.     Ah  me !     How 
many  a    decently  apparelled    husband,  how  many  a 
\vhite-robed  child,  has  come  forth  out  of  great  tribula- 
tion not  their   own.     Indeed,  uncounted    multitudes 
there  are  who  shall  walk  in  white  before  the  throne 
of  God,  whose    robes    the    secret   sacrifice  of  loving 
hearts  hath  whitened  as  no  fuller  of  earth  can  whiten 
them. 

My  first  meeting  with  the  kirk  session  of  St 
Ct  hbert's  was  an  epoch-marking  incident.  Twent~ 
eight  there  were  who  sat  about  the  session-room, 
every  man  but  one  an  importation  from  Caledonia's 
rugged  hills.  Eoxburgh's  covenanting  heroes,  Wigton- 
shire's  triumphant  martyrs,  Dumfriesshire  and  her 
Cameronians,  with  their  great  namesake's  lion  heart; 
Ayrshire,  with  her  bloody  memories  of  moor  and  moss-' 
hags,  of  quarry  and  conventicle,  of  Laud  and  liberty- 
all  these  had  filtered  through  and  reappeared  in  these 
silent  and  stalwart  men. 

Of  these  '-^ht-and-twenty  faces  at  least  one  score 
had  the  cast  of  marble  and  the  stamp  of  eternity  upon 
them.  I  felt  like  a  hillock  nestling  at  the  feet  of 
lofty  peaks,  for  I  do  make  my  oath  that  when  you  are 
begirt  by  men  in  whose  veins  there  flows  the  blood  of 


iff 


4»         Sr  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

martyrs,  who  have  been  slowly  nurtured  upon  such 
stately  doctrines  as  are  their  daily  food,  who  actually 
believe  in  God  as  a  living  participator  in  the  affairs 
of  time,  whose  mental    pabulum  has  been   Thomas 
Boston  and  Samuel  Eutherford  and  Philip  Doddridge, 
and  who  have  used  the.e  worthies  but  as  helps  to 
climb  tbn  unpinnacled  hill  of  the  Eternal  Word- 
when  you  get  such  men  as  these,  multiplied  a  hundred- 
fold by  the  stern  consciousness  of  a  religious  trust,  if 
you  are  not   then  among  the  Eockies  of  flesh  and 
blood,  I  am  as  one  who  sees  men  like  walking  trees, 
ignorant  of  the  true  altitudes  of  human  life. 

But  I  was  yet  to  learn,  and  to  learn  by  heart  (the 
great  medium  of  all  real  character),  that  many  a 
fragrant  flower  may  bloom  in  secret  clefts  of  rock- 
bound  hills,  frowning  and  forbidding  though  they  be. 
For  God  loves  to  surprise  us,  especiaUy  in  happy  ways ; 
and  His  is  a  sanguine  sun. 

It  should  now  be  stated  that  I  began  my  ministry 
in  St.  Cuthbert's  with  the  handicap  of  an  Irish 
ancestry.  How  then  was  I  to  wear  the  hodden  grey  ? 
Or  how  was  I  to  commingle  myself  with  that  historic 
tide  which  I  well  knew  the  Scottish  heart  regarded 
as  fed  more  than  any  other  from  the  river  that  makes 
glad  the  city  of  God  ? 

My  every  vein  was  already  full  to  overflowing  with 
Irish  blood.  My  father  was  from  Ballymena  and  my 
mother  was  from  Cork,  a  solution  which  no  chemistry 
could  jure.     I  was  inclined  by  nature  and  confirmod 


MY  KIRK  SESSION 


43 


by  practice  towards  a  reasonable  pride  in  my  ancestral 
land.  But  odds  were  against  me.  Even  the  mistress 
of  my  manse,  whose  judgment  was  wont  to  take 
counsel  of  her  kindly  heart,  even  she  remonstrated 
when  she  first  discovered  my  nativity,  and  has  never 
since  been  altogether  thankful,  though  she  strives 
hard  to  be  resigned. 

"Why  do  you  always  flaunt  your  Irish  origin  f" 
she  reasoned  once.  "  If  it  is  good  stock,  be  modest 
about  it ;  and  if  it  is  not,  the  less  said  the  better." 

Then  she  remarked  that  she  was  no  doubt  pre- 
judiced, for  she  had  once  witnessed  the  noble  proces- 
sion in  New  York  on  St.  Patrick's  Day;  and  she 
added  that  they  all  seemed  to  have  mouths  like  the 
Mammoth  Cave  of  Kentucky  and  complexions  like 
an  asphalt  pavement  under  repairs.  ]\Iy  wife's  power 
of  detecting  analogies  was  uncommonly  acute. 

•  •  , 

When  the  session  had  been  duly  constituted,  the 
minutes  of  the  last  meeting  were  read  by  the  session 
clerk.  It  is  probably  quite  within  the  mark  to  say 
that  all  ecclesiastical  officialdom  can  product  no  other 
dignitary  with  the  same  stern  grandeur  as  pertains  to 
the  clerk  of  a  Scottish  session.  I  have  witnessed 
archbishops  in  their  robes  and  with  their  mitres,  and 
have  marvelled  at  the  gravity  with  which  they  clothed 
the  most  ponderous  frivolities,  at  their  stately  genu- 
flections, at  the  swift  shedding  and  donning  of  their 
bewildering  millineries.     I  have  seen  General  Booth 


I 


44         ^7!  CUTHBERrs  OF  THE  WEST 

resplendent  in  his  flaming  clericals.  I  have  even 
looked  on  the  bespangled  Dowie.  dazzling  and  be- 
dazzl-  i_hut  none  of  these  has  the  majesty  of  poise, 
the  aroma  of  responsibility,  or  the  inexorable  air  of 
authority  which  mark  the  true-bred  session  clerk 

«.  f/r'ff '  ^'"^"^  ^''°  '^^^  ^^d  hermetically 
sealed.  I  addressed  the  elder,  briefly,  referring  to  my 

great  duties  and  my  poor  abilities,  after  which  I 
invited  them  to  a  general  deliberation,  and  beggea 
them  to  acquaint  me  with  the  mind  and  temper  of 
the^  congregation,  asking  such  advice  as  might  be 
use.ul  m  entering  upon  my  labours. 

"  We  bid  ye  welcome,  moderator."  began  the  senior 
elder,  by  name  Sandy  Grant,  "an'  we'll  do  what  in  us 
lies  to  hand  up  yir  hands;  ye're  no'  oor  servant,  but 
cor  mmister.  and  we're  a'  ready  to  do  yir  biddin'.  gin 

It's  the  will  o'  God.     Ye're  sittin'  in  \  ^-  u. 

"■     -^ « re  sictin   m  a  michty  seat 

moderator.     It   was    frae   that   chair    that    oor   first 
mmister  spak'  till  us  in  far  ither  days" 

At  this  reference  to  the  gol     a  age.  I  saw  a  wave 
of  tenderness  break  over  the  faces  of  the  older  men 
"Ay,   I  nund  weel    the  nicht    Doctor  Grant  sat 
amang  us  for  the  first  time,  as  ye're  sittin'  noo" 

This  time  it  was  Eonald  M'Gregor  who  had  spoken, 
the  love-hght  on  whose  face  even  sixty  winters  could 
not  disguise. 

"We'll  never  look  upon  his  like  again.  Te've 
mebbe  watched  the  storm,  sir.  when  it  beat  upon  the 
shore.     His  style  o'  delivery  was  like  the  ragin'  o' 


My  KIRK  SESSION  45 

the  waves.     Ye  see  that  bulk,  moderator,  fa  haun's 
restin'  on   the  tap   o't.     Weel,  he  dune  for  sax  o' 
them  the  while  he  was  oor  minister.     We  bocht  the 
strongest  bound  o'  them,  but  he  banged  them  to  tatters 
amazin'  fast.     A  page  at  a  skite.     Times  it  was  like 
the  driftin'  0'  the  leaves  in  the  fall.     He  was  graun' 
on  the  terrors  o'  the  law.     We  haena  been  what's  to 
say  clean  uplifted  wi'  the  michty  truth  o'  the  punish- 
ment 0'  the  lost  sin'  his  mooth  was  closed  in  death," 
and  Eonald  sighed  the  sigh  of  the  hungrv  heart. 
^  "  Div  ye  no'  mind  the  Doctor  on  the  decrees,  the 
simmer  0'  the  cholerp-  -div  ye  no'  mind  yon,  Eonald  ? " 
said  Thomas  Laidlaw,  swept  into  the  seething  tide  of 
reminiscence;    but  here  the  session  clerk  rose  to  a 
point  of  order. 

"The  memb'^rs  o'  this  court  will  address  the 
moderator,"  he  said  sternly.  «  Moreover,  we  are  here 
for  business,  not  for  history.  We  might  well  think 
shame  of  ourselves,  glorifying  the  old  when  we  should 
be  welcoming  the  new.  Were  no'  to  be  aye  dwellin' 
amang  the  tombs  "  (this  with  a  rise  in  feeling  and  a 
drop  in  language).  "  Besides.  Doctor  Grant  was  no'  a 
common  man,  and  it's  no'  becomin'  to  be  comparin' 
common  men  along  wi'  the  likes  o'  him." 

So  this,  thought  I,  is  the  Scottish  mode  of  paying 
compliments.  I  had  alwa/s  heard  that  their  little 
tributes  were  more  medicinal  than  confectionary. 

Then  followed  a  painful  calm,  for  Scottish  c^lmf  are 
stormy  things. 


If 


JfMJB 


46         ST.  CUTHBERrs  OF  THE    WEST 

It  was  Michael  BJake  who  first  resumed. 

"Let  us  forget  the  things  which  are  behind,"  he 
said.  "  if  we  only  can,"  and  there  was  a  wealth  of  agony 
m  his  words, "  and  let  us  press  forth  unto  those  things 
which  are  before.  We  greet  you,  moderator,  as  the 
messenger  of  peace,  for  we  are  all  but  sinful  men  and 
unworthy  of  the  trust  we  hold.  I  hope  you  will 
.T)reach  to  us  the  grace  of  God.  for  we  have  learned 
ourselves  the  terrors  of  the  law." 

■I  move  that  we  adjourn,"  interjected  Ronald 
M'Gregor.  alarmed  for  the  retirement  of  Sinai,  and 
fearful  of  a  too  early  spring. 

"  I  second  that,"  said  a  rugged  patriarch,  hitherto 
silent. 

"  But  I  hope  the  moderator  '11  permit  me  to  express 
the  hope  that  he'l!  no'  shorten  up  the  services,  and 
that  he'll  gie  the  young  fowk  mair  c'  the  catechism 
than  we  hae  been  gectiu',  and  mak'  the  sacraments 
mair  sear-^'n'  to  the  soul,"  said  Saunders  M'Tavish. 

"  Ye're  out  o'  order,"  interrupted  the  clerk ;  "  there's 
a  motion  to  adjourn  afore  the  Chair." 

"  But  I  maun  tak'  ma  staun',"  exclaimed  Saunders 

"  Ye  maunna."  retorted  the  clerk. '« ye  maun  tak'  yir 
Beat/'  and  Saunders  dropped  where  he  stood,  while  his 
fellow-elders  looked  into  each  other's  faces  as  if  to  say 
that  this  thing  might  have  befallen  any  one  of  them 


VT 


THB    FinST    PARISH    ROUND 

T  SOON  began,  of  course,  the  visitation  of  my  flock. 
-L  Although  my  title  to  youth  was  at  tha-  time 
undisputed,  and  although  the  unreflective  would  have 
labelled  me  "  new  school,"  the  importance  of  faithful 
visicing  was  ever  before  my  mind. 

The  curate's  place  (unhappiest  of  men)  had  more 
than  once  been  offered  me  at  the  hands  of  portly 
ministers,  prepared  to  deny  themselves  all  the  visiting, 
they  .  take  all  the  preaching  and  nearly  all  the 
salary,  while  their  untitled  slave  \,as  to  deny  himself 
the  high  joy  of  the  pulpit,  to  starve  on  the  salary's 
dregs,  and  to  indulge  himself  royally  in  a  very 
carnival  of  unceasing  visitation.  Th  ie  overtures  I 
had  had  little  hesitation  in  declining,  for  observation 
had  taught  me  that  the  slave's  place  soon  makes  the 
slave's  spirit,  imless  that  slavery  be  an  indenture  unto 
God,  which  is  but  the  sterner  name  for  liberty. 

Moreover,  curates  (ebpecially  Presbyterian,  which 
implieth  the  greater  perversion)  seemed  to  lack  the 
breath  of  the  uplands  which  the  pulpit  breathes,  and 

47 


nm 


mm 


48 


ST.  CVTHBERT-S  OF  THE   WEST 


too  often  degenerate  into  ,«.iety  favourite,,  whow 
flappmg  to.l,„,  black  maybe  ,ee„  a,  these  curate" 
nng  ..  fashionable  doors,  where  "five-o'c  0^' 
"'"""  ■"""'  "■«  l^'d-gloved  ministers  of  men  who 
are  supposed  to  be  the  steward,  of  eternal  life.  I  Id 
once  overheard  an  camellea  queen  of  fashion  de  lare 

ngn  Class    at  home,"  and  even  paneeyrise 
Jns  graceful  transportation  of  cups  of  tea'  howev« 

Whereupon  I  for  ever  swore  that  I  would  frizzle 
jn  no  such  heathen  altar;  I  vowed  to  be  either  » 
m,n,ster  or  a  butler-„„e  thing  or  the  other-b„ 

a  tongue-cheeked  comedy  to  both  God  and  man 

r„rhl  '*.*  T™"'""'  "'■  "   ™"   »o"pregation   like  St 
Cuthberts,!  m.ght  on  the  other  hand  have  rc,,ue,ted  an 
assistant  who  should  relieve  me  of  the  visiting  le,  vi"" 
me  only  the  duties  o,  the  pulpit,  beanie  en  „Z^ 
any  man.     Indeed,  one  of  the  stalwarts  had  sugL^d 
th«  to  me,  averring  that  I  needed  more  time  t  my 
ermons,  whereat  I  looked  at  him  sharply ;   but  SI 
<^  was  placid  as  a  sea  of  milk,  which  is  '  e  w  v 
bcotsmen  when  they  mean  to  score.     But  this  dua 
m.n.s  ry  was  ever  the  object  of  my  disfavo  r  ,„    h 
preaches  best  who  visits  best,  and  the  weekly  '1' 
makes  the  richest  grist  for  the  Sunday  mill  TZ 
and  tender  visiting  is  the  sermon's  fuse,  ad  w  . 
God  hath  put  together  no  man  can  safely  put  asunder 


THE  FIRST  PARISH  ROUND  45 

One  of  my  first  visits  was  to  the  farmhouse  of 
Donald  MThutter.  a  belated  moniber  of  the  fold  for 
he  and  his  wife  Elsie  had  not  beshadowed  '  St 
Cuthberfs  door  for  many  a  year.  This  parochial 
-^hcy  had  been  suggested  to  me  by  the  beadle-— 
"  Ye  maun  luik  to  the  driftwood  first— pit  oot  the 
laggm-  log  frae  the  shore,  ye  ken."  he  said  to  me 
following  this  up  with  an  exhaustive  narrative  of  the 
raftsman's  life  which  had  once  been  his. 

I   found   Donald   dour  but  deferential,  full-armed 
against  every  appeal  for  his  reform. 

"I    willna    gong."    he    excla--ed.  "till  ony    kirk 
that  pits    oot    the    token  ^     at   the    sacrament,   and 
taks  up   wi'  they   bit  cairds    they're   u.sin'  the   noo 
Cairds    at    the    sacrament!  it's  fair  insultin'  to  the 
Almichty." 

I  parried  the  blow  as  best  I  could,  and  was  on  the 
verge  of  wmning  in  the  argument  when  he  suddenly 
took  another  tack. 

"Forbye.  I  hae  dune  ma  duty.  Didna  I  gang 
steady  when  the  Doctor  was  oor  meenister  ?  Ilka 
Sabbath  day  I  gaed  an'  hearkened  till  the  graun' 
sermons  twa  oors  at  a  time,  an'  God  grippit  me  thae 
days,  an'  He  hasna  loosened  His  baud  o'  me  yet.  Ance 
saved,  aye  saved.  That's  ma  doctrine.  Wha  can 
slip  awa'  frae  grace,  forbye  it  be  thae  Methody  buddies 

of  \t  ■^'LnTn°9^'r  I"'?  '^x."  ^""^^  "^"  ^'  '"  remembrance 
SL     '  .^1  ®"'""*    churches,  before  the  sacrament  of  th. 

Supper,  to  those  entitled  to  participate. 


H 


i  I 


A'!    ►•J'l 


iWiA'*.>ir,Vt<i:^  .'/> 


50         ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

an'  ither  Armenian  fowk,  an'  there  was  na  ane  o'  them 
in  the  parish  in  the  Doctor's  day.  The  fields  was  fine 
an'  fu'  0'  wheat  thae  days,  but  there's  muckle  mustard 
noo,  I  tell  ye  that." 

"But you  wiU surely  admit. Mr.  MThatter,  that  the 
nourishment  of  years  ago  will  not  suffice  for  to-day. 
Yesterday's  dinner  will  not  forestall  the  necessity  of 
the  day  that  follows,"  I  urged,  inwardly  ashamed  of 
the  threadbare  argument. 

He  saw  its  threadbareness  too,  for  he  retorted— 
"That's  a  verra  auld  argyment;  in  fac',  it's  clean 
stale,  if  it's  no'  rotten.  Doctor  Grant  wud  hae  sniffit 
at  It.  And  what's  mair,  it's  no'  an  argyment  ava',  for 
I  hae  mony  a  dinner  0'  the  sermons  that  I  gathered 
m  thae  far-back  days.  I  aye  eat  and  sup  off  that 
when  ye  an'  yir  fowk's  fummlin'  wi'  yir  cairds  at  the 
kirk.     Bide  a  meenit." 

He  hurried  into  an  adjoining  room,  and  soon 
returned  with  a  sheaf  of  rusty  notes,  clearing  his 
throat  awhile  with  the  sound  of  a  trumpeter  calling 
to  the  fray. 

"I  wasna  ane  o'  the  sleepin'  kind;  I  aye  paid 
attention  in  the  hoose  0'  God.  I  only  sleepit  ance, 
an'  I  cudna  help  it,  for  oor  Jeanie  was  born  that 
momin'— an'  that  was  a  work  o'  needcessity.  An' 
what's  mair,  I  aye  took  notes  0'  the  discoorse,  an' 
I  hae  them  yet. 

"They's  ma  dinners  :ioo,  tae  use  yir  word,  minister 
—they's  nm  dinners,  an'  they  hunger  nae  mair  wha 


.^:^  '^ 


THE  FIUST  PARISH  ROUND  5, 

taka  them — saxteen  or  seventeen  coorsea,  ilka  ane  o* 
them ;  nane  0'  yir  bit  lunches  wi'  napkins  an'  flowers 
and  finger  bowls  like  ye  hae  the  noo,  no'  worth  the 
bit  grace  ye  say  ower  them — they'a  nane  o'  yir  teae. 
taatin'  an'  sniffin',  wi'  sweeties  an'  sic  like— they 'e 
meat,  sir,  strong  meat  for  strong  men,  an'  the  bane's 
in  the  baith  0'  them  like." 

He  stopped,  aa  a  cannon  stops  after  it  has  fired,  the 
aroma  of  battle  still  pouring  from  its  lips. 

"  What  are  these  papers  in  your  hand  ? "  I  asked, 
not  for  information,  but  for  breath.  (You  have  seen 
a  caged  canary  leap  from  its  perch  to  its  swing,  and 
back  again,  when  sorely  pressed.)  He  speedily  closed 
that  door. 

"  They,  sir  ?     Div  ye  no'  ken  what's  they  ?     They's 
Doctor  Grant's  heids  and  pertikklers.     Doctor  Grant's 
heids  and  pertikklers,  I'm  tellin'  ye.     A'  0'  them  but 
ane  is  the  heids  an'  pertikklers  o'  sermons  that  made 
St.    Cuthbert's   ring   like  the    wood   on  an   August 
nicht  when  the  thunder  roams  it.     That  ither  ane  he 
preach't  in  a  graun'  city  kirk  wha  soucht  to  get  him, 
and  they  cudna — an'  it  was  croodit  like  the  barn  mou' 
when  harvest's  dune,  an'  I  was  there  masel',  an'  he 
kent   me — an'    I'm   the  man  that  held  his  cane  in 
ma  haun'  the  time  he  preach't,  I'm  tellin'  ye."     And 
Donald's  withered  face  was  now  aglow  with  such  a 
tenderness  as  only  bygone  years    can    loan   to  age; 
his  eyes  were  ashine  with  tears,  each  one  the  home  of 
sheeted  days  that  had  come  back  from  the  dead,  and 


% 

1:1 


lAiiiiiita 


s» 


i-^ 


%il 


ST.  CUTHBEJiT^S  OF  THE   WEST 


A  \ 


fruitful   countryside      T^l  .!•  .^^^°"«^«   «*   thia 

■^7.      she    said,    "we're   a*    «?/.«f«u      ,. 

mair_„ae    „„!  "  """"^  '™  '»»nth  or 

evangelist  budX  ""   ""^"''-  ^»'  ""'y  «  to'   o' 

wark   Whatever,  but   the^ate   „  H"  7  ^"''■ 

^""-r:e!vrvT"-"^^ 

-a.ae...»..:-t^;-      - 


■■-■l^Klffi; 


THE  FIRST  PARISH  ROUND  53 

weeks  or  mair  it  took  us  afore  we  landit  in  Quebec 
Then  by  canal  and  wagon  tiU  we  reach't  New  Jed- 
burgh;  'twaa  a  sair.  weary  ride.     But  the  breath  o' 
freedom   an'   0'   promise   was  in  the   air —  an*   we 
hae  oor  ain  hame  noo  an'  twa  hunner  acres  o'  the 
u^cst  land  in  a'  the  country.     An'  we're  independent 
noo.  wi  eneuch  for  a  bite  an'  a  sup  tiU  we  hunger 
nae  mair  nor  thirst  ony  mair.     An'  oor  bairnies  is 
a   daem   fine :  Jamie's  a  doctor  i'  Chicago ;   an'  oor 
Jeanie's  mairrit  on  Allan  Sutherland,  him  as  will  be 
the  new  Reeve  0'  the   coonty;   an'   Chairlie   has   a 

an   WilheTl  hae  oor  ain  land  here,  when  we  sleep 
aneath  it.  ^ 

"  I  aften  sit  an'  think  we  micht  hae  been  aye  herdin' 
sheer  on  the  Dumfries  hills,  wi'  scarce  eneuch  to  eat, 
wi  this  man  •  my  Laird '  an'  yon  man  '  yir  Grace '  an 
oor  am  bairns  little  mair  nor  slaves.     The  duke  we 
knelt  doon  afore  in  Scotland  aften  paid  mair  for  a 
racin'  filly  nor  we  paid  for  a'  this  bonnie  land  we  ca' 
oor  ain  the  day.     Canada's  nae   sae  guid   for  earia 
an'  lairds,  but  it's  graun'  for  puir  honest  fowk.     An' 
what's  mair,"  continued  Mrs.  Gavin,  "  we  didna  hae 
the  preachin'  i'  the  auld  country  we  hae  in  Canada— 
leastwise,  no'  as  graun'  as  we  used  to  hae  i'  the  time 
0'  Doctor  Grant.     Div  ye  ken,  sir.  the  grandest  thing 
I  ever  heard  come  oot  0'  his  mooth  ?     No  ?     Weel 
it  was  this.     He  aye  preach't  fearfu'  lang,  as  ye've 
nae  doot  heard,  an'  at  times  the  men  fowk  wad  weary 


:m 


«^;-" 


54 


ST.  CUmBEHT'S  OF  THE   WEST 


•n'  gang  oot.  some  to  tak'  a  reek  wi'  their  pipes  an'  m.,' 

8taui>'.     Weel,  ae  day  ,  wheen  Jfh  "" 

doon  the  .a,  an-  II tZ  uZ.Z'^T'^ . 
«t  doon,  an-  then  he   eavs   ■  M.  V  ^^     " 

dtappit  whaur  they  ,tood !     ThZ '      ""'  "'"'  ''"'^ 
oo^thatday.Itelfye^^i^JSTlr^n 


ii  I 


VII 


11 


"THE    CHILD    OF  THE    REGIMENT" 

jy-Y  labours  in  St.  Cuthberfs  had  covered  but  a 
few  fleeting  years  (oh,  relentless  ticking  of 
the  clock!  at  once  the  harbinger  and  the  echo 
of  eternity),  when  there  came  into  our  Uves  life's 
greatest  earthly  joy.  Serene  and  peaceful  our  lives 
had  been,  every  hour  garlanded  with  love  ard  every 
year  festooned  by  the  Hand  Unseen. 

Trials  and  difficulties  there  had  been  indeed,  but 
they  were  as  billows  which  carried  in   their   secret 
bosom  the  greeting  of   the  harbour  and  the  shore 
Even  the  roots  of  sorrow  had  been  moistened  by  the 
far-off  wells  of  joy.     To  many  a  guest  of  God,  disguised 
m  the  habiliments  of  gloom,  we  had  turned  a  frowning 
face  and  had  bidden  such  begone.     But  such  guests 
heeded  not.  pressing  relentlessly  in  upon  our  trem- 
blmg  hearth,  when    lo!   the    passing   days    revealed 
their  mission ;  we  saw  the  face  hidden  beneath  the 
sombre  hood,  and   prayed  the  new-discovered  guest 
to  abide   with    us   unto  the    end.     For   God  loveth 
the  masquerade,  and  doth  use  it  everywhere. 

65 


iiii 


t'.hM 


56         ST.  CUTSBSJlr-S  OF  THE   WEST 

«»d  to  be  witnessed  even-  day    ,„t  "-"qaerade 

•"  God's  ^,  d^.  is  11^:^ t  :,.""•  ''"S'"  '^- 
Our  manse  was  »  „i  "*"  ""  ™">iatnre. 

been  seiec  J  ^^  sl^  Z" li^ ^ "  ^"  '^'^  ^"^ 
Spaoioos  and  genial  w»,  ,t      ,j  """e-T-heart 

it-  i-partial  ,^„^  ™'  t  "^  '■^'^''^  "onse,  with 
waiting  to  eohoIL  ste  I  '''  "'"'  ""■  '^^^ 
olang  of  time  anrLriT'  ^<^r^^  by  the 
Hioh  terraces  Jed  Till  wa"'  T  "'  *""• 
waiting  river,  murmuring  t™  ""  *°  *« 

robed  choir  of  oak  a„^  ,  ^"""^  ^'^'i  «  '«"- 
eternal  pUees  in  a  gander  L'th  ""■''"  '""'  ""'" 
them,  whae   pine  an77  ""''  """'''  ""^-J 

-er.  but  snarhlglXl;"''   "'""■  <"^'*"« 

win^s.rm.swe,fedt:::;::~r""'^» 

'-btgTe  tt  rir„f""  f^  '"-o-p'- 

«">e  the  violet  and  Z  l.T  '  ■""  '^''*' 
these  daring  pioneer.,  ^  ot  th  '"  '"^"« 
™e  utterly  convinced  thl      I  P*"-  ^  ""^  the 

their  way.  buthrbi  /'  ""'^  """^  ""t  '°et 

Friend  ^    ''''''   8^'l^d    V  the   pilgrims' 

-ttnrchid'fgerfe^fhr"  "-^  --- 

•ward;  no  radiant  fhawt^t    S''  '""  ™'™' 

cast  had  flitted  here  and  T    ^  "'""''»<"»  "lone  can 

oere  and  there  beneath  these  lonely 


"  2!H£  CJWZZ)  OJP  7-//^  SEGIMEtfT"      57 

tree,  nor  had  these  flower,  felt  their  life's  great  and 
only  ttnU  h,  the  touch  of  a  baby,  dimpled  h«>d 
Bnt  U«.t  golden  door  at  last  swmig  gently  open. 
That  hour  of  ecstasy  and  anguish  brought  u,  life's 
cro™  and  joy,  and  the  hills  of  time,  erstwhile  green 
and  beautiful,  were  now  raaiant  with  a  light  kindled 
irom  afar. 

St.  Cuthbert's  rejoiced  exceedingly  when  our  little 
Margaret   was   given  unto    us.  but  we  knew  it  not 
at   first,  for  Scotch  joy  is  a  deep  and  silent  thing 
a  fermentation  at  the  centre   rather  than   an  effer- 
vescence at  the  surface.     For  our  Margaret  was  as 
one  born  out  of  due  time,  the  iirst  child  whose  infant 
cry  had  awakened  the  echoes  cI  cneir  ancient  manse 
though   seventy   long   years   had   flown   since   their 
first   minister    had    come   among   them.     Thus   she 

exulted.     Jubilant,  one  hour  after  this  new  ster  had 

wung  xnto  the  firmament.  I  hoisted  the  Union  Jack 

to  the  topmost  notch  of  our  towering  flag-pole  and 

never  has  it  flaunted   its    triumph   m'ore '  ubtnUy' 

The  beadle  reported  to  me  afterwards  that  the 
other  churches  were  mightily  jealous  of  our  late 
autumn  bloom,  and  one  of  their  devotees,  an  Episco- 
pahan,  had  asked  him  sneeringly— 

"  What's  that  flag  doing  there  ' " 
^nt's  blawin'  i'  the  wind,"  retorted  my  diplomatic 


•   •  I 


^.i-^m^. 


'     J9Jfl 


5S 


ST.  CUTHBERT^S  OF  THE    WEST 


H'li 


E .Z'  r "";"'''  .'"'*"  J"''"'   o^"'"   >«8«1  th. 
■Kpuoopalian  brother. 

«It'.  mair  nor  ever  happened  in  yon  kirk  «■  yom,; 
.n    ta  man:  nor  could  happen  to  the  Pope  o'  Eome. 

my  beadle  back  triumphantly;  for  Willi«n  wa. 
uncharitable,  and  deepaired  of  aU  ritualieta.  the 
Zl    "'"'''"■""'8  P""«"  '""■^■'g  hot   within  hi. 

Nor  were  theae  the  only  .worda  that  flashed  above 
our  Margaret's  cradle;  for  a  Methodiat  mother  in 
Is  ael  hopeM  of  a  sympathetic  response  from  Elsie 
MPhat..r  (the  non.hurehgoing  one),  ventured  the 
comment  that  similar  events  in  her  own  brilliant 
matern^  record  had  provoked  no  unseemly  J  t 
which  Elsie  responded  tartly— 

«I  ken  that  fine,  and  it's  very  nafral,  f„,  ye've 
badmair  nor  maist;  but  gin  ye  hadna  had  ane  for 
a  ma.ttor  o  seventy  year  or  mair,  like  us,  wad  ye  no" 

• 

The  Sabbath  morning  after  Margarefs  dawn  St 
Cuthberfs  was  full  to  overflowing,  a,  sLed  to  be  evert 
heart,  especmlly  every  aged  heart,  finding  its  morning 
anew  m  the  life  of  a  little  child.  For  the  mominf 
and  the  eyemng  are  wondrously  alike.  In  summer 
especaUj,  the  sun-bathed  mountains,  the  pendent  dew- 
drop,  the  melodious  silences -all    these  belong  so 


\B  m 


"  THE  CHILD  OF  THE  REGIMENT'*     5, 

much  to  both  alike  that  I  find  it  hard  to  distinguish 
the  matins  and  the  vespers  of  God's  cathedral  days 

My  voice  trembled  just  a  little  as  I  gave  out  the 
psalm — 

"Such  pity  a8  a  father  hath 
Unto  hit  children  dear," 

hut  we  sang  it  to  the  tune  of  "Dunfermline."  and 
icon  I  was  home  out  to  sea  upon  its  far-flung  bUlows  • 
for  of  a  truth  these  old  Scottish  tunes  have  the  swing 
of  eternity  in  them,  and  seem  to  grandlv  overlap  the 
bourne  of  time  and  space.     And  when  we  prayed  the 
only  liturgy  which  Presbyterians  will  own.  I  could  not 
forbear  to  say  «  Our  Father  "  twice,  and  lo !  a  strange 
hmg  happened  unto  me.     For  a  great  light  seemed 
to  shme  upon  the  words,  and  th.t  little  helpless  life 
at  home  within  the  manse,  and  its  thrice-blessed  cry 
and  Its  yearning  look  of  wonder,  and  its  hand  whose 
only  prowess  was   to  he    in   some   stronger  hand  of 
^ve_all    these    became    a    commentary,  illustrating 
God,  and  m    their    cordial    light   I   beheld  Him  as 
mother,  or   professor,  or  minister   had   never  shown 
Him  to  me  before,  bending  over  the  souls  of  men 
otherwise  orphaned  evermore.     That  vision  has  tarried' 
with    me    ever   since,    and    my   people    have    been 
the  better  of  it;  for  he  alone  can  caress  his  people's 
iouls  who  has  felt  the  caress  of   His  father's  love 
God's  tenderness  is  the  great  .ontL.aon  for  the  healing 
of  hfe  8  long  disease. 


^"ii 


m 


VIII 


_^.  Ill 


*A   NEW  FOOT   ON   THE   FLOOR" 

WHEN  our  daughter  (are  there  any  two  other  words 
80  well-wed  aa  these  ?   What  music  their  union 
makes  I)  was  seven  or  eight  years  old.  her  mother,  which 
18  my  wife  writ  large  and  heavenly,  and  I  were  taking 
tea  at  Inglewood,  which  my  long-suffering  readers  will 
remember  as  the  home  which  first  welcomed  me  to 
New  Jedburgh   and    the   issidence  of   Mr.    Michael 
Blake.     When  our  meal  was  over.  Mr.  Blake  and  I 
were  enjoying  a  quiet  game  of  billiards,  which  was 
a  game  I  loved.     But  I  may  have  more  to  say  about 
this  later  on.  for  so  had  some  of   my  pious  people, 
though  I  am  mchned  to  think  that  they  objected  not 
so  much  because  they  thought  the  game  was  wrong  as 
becau^ethey  feared  I  was  enjoying  it.     For.  to  some 
truly  good  Scotch  folk  the  measure  of  enjoyableness 
^  the  measure  of  sin,  and  a  thing  needeth  no  greater 
fault  than  to  be   guilty  of   deliciousness.     But   the 
converse  of  this  they  also  hold  as  true,  namely,  that 
wnat  maketh  miserable  is  of  God.  and  to  be  wretched 
xs  to  be  pious  at  the  heart.     For  which  reason    I 


"A  NEW  FOOT  ON  THE  FLOOR''       6i 

have  observed  oftentimes,  they  deem  that  to  be  a 
truly  well-spent  Sabbath  day  which  has  banished  aU 
possible  happiness  from  their  children's  lives,  bringinR 
them  to  its  close  limp  and  cramped  and  sore,  but 
catechism-full  and  with  a  good  mark  ir  the  book  of 
me  for  every  weary  hour. 

Was  it  Johnson  who  ventured    the   opinion    that 
the   Puritans   put    bear-baiting   und^r   the  ban,  not 
because  it  was  painful  to  the  bears  but  because  it  was 
pleasant  to  the  people  ?    Whether  it  was  or  no,  I  shall 
not  discuss  it     Neither  shaU  I  discuss  the  ethics  of 
biUiards,  unless  it  be  to  say  this  much,  that  if  there 
be  games  in  heaven.  I  do  not  doubt  it  will  have  a^ 
honoured  place,  for  it  is  an  ivory  game  and  truthful 
abhornng  vagrant  luck  and  scoring  only  by  eternal 
laws  which  EucUd  made  his  own.     And  I  make  no 
doubt  that  man>  a  hand  hath  pHed  the  billiard  cue 
which  long  ere  this  hath  touched  with  its  finger-tips 
the  ivory  gates  and  golden. 

But  to  return.  We  were  in  the  very  midst  of  our 
game,  of  which  I  remember  very  little,  often  and  often 
though  I  have  tried  to  recall  every  feature  of  that 
eventful  night  But  I  do  recall  that  we  spoke  about 
our  Ma.garet.  and  there  was  a  deep  strain  of  wistful 
envy  in  Mr.  Blake's  voice.  I  remember  well  his 
saying  that  God's  richest  earthly  gift  was  that  of 
wife  and  child  and  hearth. 

"Though  I  speak,"  he  added  almost  bitterly  ^aa  I 
might  speak  of  distant  stars,  for  I  have  no  one  of  tht 


*  >-» 


I 


••         ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  TBK   WEST 

th™/'  „d  hi.  lip,  deed  tightly  while  he  drove  hi. 
oau  with  a  savage  hand. 

'■  '^'"*  f  ■*'•  ■""  ""«  «  ehild,"  I  Mid.  •.  but  no  m.n 

«ho  h«,  , ,,«,  eheltered  by  your  friend»hip  o«n  .g„e 

w.th  you  .bout  your   hearth.     It  ha.  warmed  my 

heart  to.,  many  time,  when  that  heart  wa,  cold." 

There,,  „„  .earth  where  there  i.  neither  wife 

■    nor  child,  he  answered  almoet  paMionately.     "Hearth. 

are  not  built  with  hand.      Do  you  not  know,  .ir,  that 

I  H.T  r        ^"^  "  *'*"^'  •"  ■»•"«  "egin  to 
kmdle  .t  when  youth  i.  .till  throbbing  in  hi.  heart? 

From  boyhoou  up  he  i,  preparing  it,  or  el,e  he  i. 

quenching  ,t  in  darkuew.     Do  you  know.   ,ir.  if  I 

were  a  pre».her  I  would  bum  that  into  young  men", 

heart.  tiU  they  would  feel  that  heaven  or  he'll  C 

.1  bound  up  with  how  they  reverence  or   de.pi.e 

their  futiu-e  flre.ide.      I  would   tell  them   that   no 

man  can  lay  hi.  hearth  in  ..he.  in  the  hot  day.  of 

youft,.nd  then  build  it  up  again  in  the  rainy  day. 

"I  would  tell  every  wa.trel,  and  every  man  who 
"  "''■^""■'g  hell  with  hi.  youthful  foUie.,  that  he 
cannot  eat  hi,  cake  and  have   it.     For  hearth    and 
wife  and  child  are  not  for  him.     I  would  tell  him 
that  he  cannot  breed  a  cancer  in  his  heart  while  he  i. 
yonng  and  cure  it  with  some  piou.  perfume  brewed 
7  'h«  hand  of  age.     I  would  tell  them  that  till  m- 
I.pBbi.t,ered,and  then  theyehoold  hear  of  the  grace  o'f 
'" ^  ^"^-  ^'ps  ^^ere  rosy  with  its  healing." 


"-4  .V^;r  FOOT  ON  THE  FLOOR''        63 

Amazed,  I  stood  and  gazed  at  him,  for  there  wa. 
n  fearful  fascination  in  his  face.     The  face  of  a  saint 
It  W.18.  with  that  warlike  peace  which  only  a  battlin. 
and  victorious  life  can  give,  but  it  had  for  the  tim^ 
the  half-hunted  look  of  one  who  trembles  at  the  souna 
of  footsteps  he  had  hoped  were  for  ever  still,  of  one 
whose  soul    was    overstormed    by   surging  waves    of 
memory.     There  is  sometimes  a  dread  ghastliness  in 
the  thought  that  out  of  the  abundance  of   a  man's 
heart  his  mouth  is  speaking,  though  he  declares  it 
not.     It   18   Uke   the   j     cession    of  a    naked    soul  • 
or.  to  change  the  figure,       is  like  beholding  a  man' 
unearth    some    very  corpse  he  had  Ic       sought    to 
hide. 

It  was  his  turn  to  play— ah  me !  the  grim  variety 
of  hfo-and  his  ball  failed  but  narrowly  of  a  delicate 
ambition. 

"If  I  could  but  have  it  back  and  play  it  over" 
I  heard  him  rather  sigh  than  say.  whereat  I  bethought 
myself  of  the  high  allegory  of  a  game. 

Musing  still.  I  ,tood  apart,  gazing  as  one  ga^es  at 
a  fire,  which  in  very  truth  I  was. 
^    "  It  is  your  shot,  sir."  he  said,  in  a  voice  as  passion- 
less as  when  I  first  heard  it  years  before. 

My   ball    had    but    left   my  cue  when    the  door 

opened  and  a  servant  said 

"  There's  a  young  man  doon  the  stair,  sir.  and  he 
tejs  ne  wants  to  speak  wi'  the  minister." 

I  descended,  hearing  as  I  went  a  ratthng  fusilade 


-H 


1:  *; 


1< 


J 


«4         ST.  CVTHBEST-S  OF  THE   WEST 

How  often  do  we  meet  new  face,,  Me  reddng 
the.r  relation  to  eoming  yeare!     Yet  many  «.  J 
fai°g    light    and   many   an   incurable   eoipse   ha. 
come  with  a  transient  meeting  each  as  this]    How 
many   a   woman    of  Samaria    goes    to  draw   water 
from    the    well,    and    sees -the    lord!       For    I 
met   only  a    boy,   or   better,    a   laddie  -  boyhood- 
breatog    word!_abont    sixteen     years     of    age 
openly    poor   but   pathetinally   decent.     His  dottes 
were  coarse    and    cheap    and  even   darned,  bearing 

mlertod."^"    '"^    ''-"'"^  --^    - 

I  advanced  and  took  his  hand ;  for  that  is  an  easv 
m^onry,  and  its  exercise  need  never  be  regretted 
.ven  f  .t  never  be  repeated.     My  wife  once   spent 
a  pUmhve  day  because  she   had  wasted   a   hid- 
shake    upon    a    caller  whom  she    took    to    be    an 
apphcant  for  matrimony,    whose    emoluments    were 
hers^i^  but   who   turned   out    to   be   an    agent    for 
Smiths   J)u^t,o„an,  of  the  £aU.  whose  emoluments 
were  his  own.      Nevertheless   I   have    always   held 
that^no   true  handshake  is  unrecorded  in  the  book 

"And  what  can  x  do  for  you,  my  lad  ( "  I  said. 
I  dinna  ken,  sir,"  he  answered,  in  a  voice  that 


"A  NEW  FOOT  ON  THE  FLOOR''        65 

luggested  a  sea  voyage,  for  it  was  redolent  of  what 
lies  only  beyond  the  sea. 
"  What  is  your  name  ? " 

"Angus  Strachan,  sir,  and  I  come  frae  Ettrick,  and 
I  hae  my  lines  frae  the  minister  o'  the  Free  Kirk." 
"And  when  did  you  land,  Mr.  Strachan?" 
"  Ca'  me  Angus,  sir,  if  ye  please.     Naebody  has  ca'd 
me  by  that  name  sin'  my  mither  pairted  wi'  me  at  the 
stage  coach  road,  and  she  was  fair  chokit  wi'  cryin', 
and  when  I  cudna  see  her  mair  for  the  bush  aboon  the' 
bum,  I  could  aye  hear  her  bleatin'  like  a  lamb— an' 
it  was  the  gloamin'.     An'  I  can  fair  hear  her  yet. 
Will  ye  no'  ca'  me  Angus  ? " 

Accursed  be  the  heart  which  has  no  opening  door 
for  the  immigrant's  weary  feet,  and  thrice  accursed 
be  the  heart  which  remembers  strangerhood  against 
some    mother's    homeless    boy.     Such     malediction, 
thank  God,  my  soul  has  never  won,  for  if  there  be 
one   sight   which   more   than   another  fills  me  with 
hopeful  pity,  it  is  the  spectacle  of  some  peasant  lad 
making  the    great    venture    of    an   untried    shore, 
pressing  in  to  those  who  were  also  foreigners  one  far- 
back  cheerless  day,  and  asking  if  this  Western  land 
may  harbour  still  another  exile  from  the  poverty  he 
seeks    to   flee.     Especially  is    this    true  of   Scottish 
laddies;  for  upon  their   faces  seems    to  be  written: 
"  I  ask  for  but  a  chance  such  as  thou  hadst  thyself," 
which  was  the  plea  of  Tom  Carlyle  when  he  fir^t 
knocked  at  London's  mighty  door. 
3 


ft 


•     !i 


'lii 


k'i 


66 


ST.  CUTHBERrs  OF  THE   WEST 


Jr*-- 


So  I  drew  nearer  to  him,  and  my  heart  flowed 
through  my  voice  as  I  said  again— 

.bo"ury?n^'°i  "^  Angu.  Wr  .ad  tell  me  aU 

before.»™z  i,  tLlT^/'"'  "'"«'"■'  "^ 
Bartin„    H..  •  «>mkmg  of  my  own  mother's 

^tag  bleesmg.  eave  that  hers  was  wondrously 
exultant  «  becometh  one  who  calls  back  IZl 
unseen  Chariot  of  God. 

"I  landed  yesterday  at  Montreal,  and  I  earn'  ower 
.»  the  ZaM  On^,     ^,  ,  ,^  '       UttlT"    td, 
and  .t  wunna  tak'  me  lang.     Ma  mither  wealln 

keepit  a  hoht  m  the  window  when  the  nioht  was 
^rk  and  her  shadow  fell  upon  it,  for  she  aye  ZZ 
to  meet  me  when  she  hearf  me  lilt  the  LTZ 

met   »d  ^:-""  "^  '^"'  ""«  ''  ""^thef  tiiw 
met,  and  then  we  gaed  ben  thegither  and  gaed  na 
mair  oot  till  the  mirk  was  by "  "  8«<»  "• 

I  detected  the  serious  and  lofty  figure  in  his  words 

~th  drals  ro^  before  m^  No  man  could  mistake  t^e 
ntual  of  which  that  strain  was  bred. 

"And  why  came  you  here,  Angus  i » 

«I  «m-  here,"  he  answered,  "to  better  masel'  I 
heard  tel  o- Canada  sin"  I  was  a  bairn,  and  ^ey  a' 

mak  an  honest  leevin'-and  mair  tee,"  he  addcdTue 
to  the  Scotch  afterthought  of  an  extra 


"A  NEW  FOOT  ON  THE  FLOOR''        67 

"  And  what  line  do  you  propose  to  follow  ?  What 
work  do  you  intend  to  do  ? " 

"  Ilka  line  that's  straight,  an'  ony  wark  that  wiUna 
soil  the  soul  even  gin  it  may  soil  the  hands."  he 
answered  quickly. 

My  soul  went  out  to  the  lad,  for  I  saw  that  his 
heart's  roots  were  deep  in  the  best  heart-soil  the  world 
hath  known,  and  that  the  Atlantic's  billows  had  not 
quenched  the  light  of  his  mother's  cottage  fire. 

"Your  father  is  dead,  is  he,  Angus?"  was  the 
next  step  in  my  examination  for  discovery,  as  the 
lawyers  say. 

"  No,  he's  no'  deid,  he's  alive,"  replied  the  lad,  with 
the  exactitude  which  marks  his  race ;  « but  I  dinna 
care  to  speak  aboot  him." 

"Very  weU,  very  well,  boy,"  I  rejoined  hastily; 
"spends  his  time  and  his  money  and  your  mother's 
money,  when  he  can  get  it,  at  the  Eed  Cow,  or  the 
Cock  and  Hens,  a  drunken  wastrel  and  cruel  too ;  for 
I  have  been  enough  in  Scotland  to  know  that  such 
hens  lay  deadly  eggs  and  such  red  cows'  milk  is  red 
with  blood."  All  this  latter  part,  of  course,  I  said  to 
myself,  but  no  word  of  it  to  the  lad  before  me,  for 
no  honest  youth  can  bear  any  lips  to  miscall  his  father 
save  his  own. 

"You  will  come  to  the  manse  with  us  and  stay 
the  night;  it  is  too  late  to  seek  other  lodging  now." 

"Thank  ye  kindly,  sir,  but  I  hae  a  wee  picklo 
iiUer  in  my  pocket,"  he  repUed,  with  modest  independ- 


f 


%  'I 


■<{m 


68 


ST.  CUTHBERT^S  OF  THE   JVEST 


ence.     I  verily  believe  that  in  heaven  ^li  q    . 
^^  even  Scotch  .Wa..)  ^TZ<^  ^Z 

But  I  ia,i,t«j,  „d  I  won;  for  he  who  waeeg  th. 
Heart  can  fiuaUj  reaiat  that  siege. 


■ 


IX 


"ANGELS    unawares" 


T  PRESENTED  him  to  my  wife  and  to  my  host, 
-'-  whose  cordiality  was  worthy  of  his  wealth  and 
hia  success.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  an  hour 
like  unto  this  when,  many  years  before,  he  too  had 
reached  New  Jedburgh  by  night,  friendless  and 
poor,  also  craving  work,  beginning  that  steady  climb 
which  had  brought  him  to  the  di-3y  heights  of 
wealth  and  influence. 

For  memories  of  poverty,  like  poor  relations,  should 
not  be  thrust  out  at  wealth's  back  gate,  but  should 
have  a  choice  room  in  the  mansion  at  whose  door 
the  sated  heart  will  often  knock,  seeking  rest. 

My  fe  has  frequently  told  me  that  she  liked 
Angus  tium  the  start  because  he  seemed  so  robed  in 
health  and  draped  in  a  kind  of  pathetic  modesty, 
with  eyes  whose  colour  she  was  certain  would  not 
fade.  How  women  do  love  the  metaphors  of  millinery ! 
How  better  than  the  sage  of  Chelsea  they  understand 
the  philosophy  of  clothes!  But  she  also  added  that  she 
was  char^.  ed  by  the  way  he  spoke  his  mother's  name 

00 


A 


7* 


ST.  CUTBBESrs  OF  THE  WEST 


l-Y* 


We  showed  the  tired  stranger  to  his  rnn«,      T^• 

He  h«.  stayed  with  Mr.  Blake,  which  w«b  but  fair 
tor   these   are  wealth's   real   prerogative,     ba!  tl' 

the  geranium  window  when  she  had  to  yawn      P.  . 

aU   hi«  f„i  ^  ^'^  wounds,"  but  almost 

aU  his  tales  were  "tales  of  valour  done"  bT^I 
the  number  of  his  "flf^rp"     •  -j,     ,  -ae  told 

held  them  in  his  ri.ht  h!  ^^  '''"'''  '*'"  ^« 
one  "star"  ^-^  "5^!  ^^^^'  P^^^^ed  out  to  us  how 
one     star     differeth  from  another  "stor"   in  glory 


"ANGELS  UNAWARES' 


n 


and  went  to  bed  at  last  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
had  gilded  the  Pleiades,  brushed  up  Castor  and 
Pollux,  and  house-cleaned  the  heavens  generally. 

Stanley,  Farrar,  Beecher,  and  a  score  of  others 
filtered  through  him  as  he  sat  by  our  humble  fire, 
turning  his  telescope  this  way  and  that  as  a  sportsman 
turns  his  gun,  while  the  very  clock  ticked  slow  to 
listen.  My  wife  became  quite  confused,  probably 
sun-struck,  for  she  has  since  aflarmed  that  the  Major 
claimed  to  have  been  present  at  the  birth  of  every  one 
of  these  famous  men  on  whom  he  early  resolved  to 
confer  immortality.  My  recollection  of  his  night's 
autobiography  is  rather  that  of  a  lane  of  dazzling 
light,  in  which  tbere  stood  now  one  and  now  another 
giant,  but  all  alike  clinging  to  the  Major's  hand. 

But  this  does  not  exhaust  our  list  of  the  famous  men 
whose  ponderous  heads  have  pressed  the  pillow  where- 
on the  exiled  Angus  r  )w  laid  his  own  to  rest.  For 
we  once  had  the  Moderator.  The  Moderator  of  what  ? 
some  unsophisticated  gentile  will  wish  to  know.  Of 
the  General  Assembly,  of  course,  for  that  is  the 
Westminster  Assembly  of  Divines  in  recurrint^ 
resurrection,  and  it  hath  its  v  vij. -irning  court  in 
heaven,  as  the  ambushed  t  rreav  jndent  of  the 
Hebrews  doth  inform  us.  Whicli  proves,  my  pre- 
centor tells  me,  that  the  New  Jerusalem  is  a  Presby- 
terian city  and  singeth  nothing  but  the  psalms. 

The  Moderator,  as  I  have  already  said,  abode  with 
us  over  night,  «iud  we  almost  begrudged  the  sleeping 


4  ^^m 


•  ii 


7» 


lii;, 


g'lP? 


ST.  CVTHBERT'S  OF  THE  WEST 


let  .t  b,  when  he  i.  pr..ehmg  .„<,  „„,  ^.^^ 

democrat,  tobacco.     For  whil«  «o   o     i  ^ 

K^fk        J  "®  ^®   smoked  we  wer« 

rcrnrh  r  -.^^  ---- 

Mode^torm.ed,™^:/^:;,,^";^'"^'^; 
patronage,  «.d  I  .haU  never  forget  it  of  hi.^    ^^' 

»er«\'^e     •; ""  '^°'"'  "'  ^^-  "^^^ 
me  lor  a  little  soda  water,  very  littiA    k«  „  -j 

™«t-soon  after  there  emerged  a  feative  fl^™"' 
'■  '"»^8  '™"«.  sweetly  diatillmg.  Aa  I  wenVl!^' 
r  r,  -■"•  I  -^  to  »7  wife,  .'wh^  '  r.St 
.Moderator   can  abed  through  a  house"  Z  ^ul 

w^  aU  but  aaleop  when  ahe  arouaed  me  with- 
Tom,  why  ,a  .  Moderator  called  a  Moderator  ? » 
Because  he  takes  it  moderately,  dear,"  I  answered 
bemg  only  in  the  twihght  of  intelhgence  ' 

"Takes  what,  Tom?  "she  asked. 
"His  honoure,  eweetheart-go  to  sleep.- 

«iow  tiiat  I  was  ever  more  glad  with  the 


"ANGELS  UNAWARES*' 


73 


thought  of  a  sleeping  stranger  than  with  the 
knowledge  that  thia  homeless  lad  was  beneath  our 
roof  that  night.  For  he  whc  homes  the  honest  poor 
has  borrowed  the  guests  of  God,  and  a  mother's 
wandering  son  is  His  peculiar  care. 

I  knew  that  the  great  Executor  of  all  praying 
mothers  leaves  them  not  long  indebted  to  any  man ; 
He  Himself  shall  speak  with  their  creditors  in  the 
gate. 


-i    »   . 
\ 


i. 


i 


J. 


MT   PIOUS   PR0PLIOAT« 

JifY  wandering  but  faithful  pen.  whose  every  child 
though  homely,  is  ite  legitimate  own,  must  now 
forsake  Angus  and  his  fortunes  for  a  season.  It  shaU 
again  return  to  him.  if  it  he  .pared.  For  the  good 
folk  of  St.  Cuthbert's  have  teught  me  to  insert  this 
phrase  at  every  seasonable  opening— indeed,  they  deem 
It  fitting  for  every  season,  and  the  very  first  marriage 
m  New  Jedburgh  at  which  I  officiated  afforded  a  vivid 
proof  of  this. 

The  young  couple  were  just  emerging  from  the 
heavenly  operation,  stiU  somewhat  under  the  celestial 
chloroform,  when  Eonald  M'Gregor  admonished  them 
His  admonition  was  after  a  fashion  almost  ministerial, 
for  Eonald  had  once  cuUed  himself  from  out  the 
common  herd  as  meant  for  a  minister  and  had 
abandoned  his  pursuit  only  when  he  found  that  he 
had  every  quaUfication  except  the  gifts. 

"Ye  maun  bear  in  mind,"  he  said,  "that  ye're  nae 
mair  twa,  but  ae  flesh ;  an'  ye'll  bide  wi'  ane  anither 
till  deith  shall  ye  pairt— that  is,  gin  ye're  spared." 

74 


?i^._  'ii'^a. 


-ITK  PIOUS  PRO:UGATE  ,, 

Meantime,  thia  friendly  per  must  record  thia  news 
of  Angus,  that  the  very  momint,  he  left  St  Cuthberfs 
manse  he  entered  upon  his  apprentice  term  in  the 
great  iron  manufactory  of  which  Mr.  Blake  was  the 
head  and    the  propelling   power;   for    behind   every 
engine  IS  the  ingenuity,  not  of  many  men.  but  of  one. 
And  leaving  him  there  to  ply  his  -.rtune  and  to 
con^rt)nt  that  unseen  antagonist  against  whom  every 
ambitoous  man  plays  move  and  move  about.  I  betake 
myself  again  to  the  records  of  St.  Cuthbert'a. 

Yet  I  find  it  hard  to  dismiss  the  lad.  for  his  is  a 
besettmg  face,  and  besides,  it  stubbornly  appears  above 
the  mam  current  of  all  the  story  I  have  yet  to  telL 

My  fortunes  with  these  strange  Scotch  folk  must 
be  recorded,  and  chief  among  my  handiwork  I  think 
A  Geordie  Lorrimer.  For  he  was  a  typical  Scot,  and 
supremely  so  in  this,  that  he  could  be  both  very 
religious  and  very  bad.  Of  which  the  remarkable 
thing  lies  here,  that  he  was  both  of  these  at  one  and 
the  self-same  time. 

Now.  although  I  am  an  Irishman,  and  boast  the 
most  romantic  blood  of  time,  yet  must  I  frankly 
admit  that  few  countrymen  of  mine  have  such 
facUity.  Many  of  them  there  are  who  could  be 
rOigious.  and  more  who  could  be  bad.  with  spon- 
taneous ease,  but  few  there  be  who  know  how  to 
be  both  at  once.  But  Geordie  did.  He  was  a 
proflpte,  but  a  pious  profligate;  a  terror  he  was 
but  he  was  a  holy  terror.     Mind  you  well.  I  do  not 


k£* 


ill 


■  !i 

•HI:  : 
Ml    I 

m 


i 


I .    tt 


7«         ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

mean  to  impugn  Geordie'e  sincerity  in  the  laat  appeal  • 
uot  for  one  moment,  for  I    believe  implicitly   that 
Geordie.  iu  the  very  heart  of  him.  meant  to  do  weU 
Indeed.  I  will  go  further,  and  say  that  iu  his  very  soul 
he  wished  to  be  closer  to  God ;  for  he  could  not  well 
help  that  wi8h— it  was  his  inseparable  heritage  from 
a  samtly  father,  long  a  beloved  elder  in  St.  Cuthberfs 
whose  sacred  suit  of  "blacks"  Geordie  had  inherited' 
himself  wearing  them  to  the  sacrament  t.  .  th.-  sessior 
denied  him  his  token,  and  shut  him  nut,  blacks  and 
all.      The    memory   of   his   mother's    h.o    ^vu.    jtiil 
fragrant    to   hundreds,    fresh    and    dewy    in     love's 
unwithering   mom;    upon    the    tide  of   prayer    had 
Geordie's  infant  life  been  launched,  and   its  gentle 
waves,  faint  but  palpable,  still  sought  to  lave  his  soul 
How  many  a  Northern  island-life,  bleak  and  wild 
IS  redeemed  from  utter  destruction  by  that  great  gulf-' 
stream,  the  prayers  of  a  mother  who  was  in  league 
with  God !    Thus  it  came  about  that  Geordie  Lorrimer's 
life  was  a  muddy  stream,  still  tinged  with  the  crystal 
waters  of  its  hill-born  spring.     He  had  made   the 
ghastly  find,  that  when  he  would  do  good,  evil  was 
present  with  him ;  to  will  was  present  with  him,  but 
how  to  perform  that  which  was  good  he  found  not. 
For  Geordie  had,  alas !  a  stronger  thirst  than  that  for 
righteousness.     He  was  given  to  "  tasting,"  a  homoeo- 
pathic word  which  Scotsmen  use  to  indicate  a  trough 
I  soon  heard  of  him  as  incorrigibly  religious  but  incor- 
rigibly dry. 


.■'v^" 


.HfK  PIOUS  PROFLIGATE 


11 


Girdle  was  the  best -known  character  in  New 
Jedburgh,  as  well  known  as  the  town  pump,  the  one 
famed  for  its  outgiving,  the  other  for  ica  ir taking 
powers,  but  both  alike  for  liquid  proweas.  Hie 
principal  occupation  was  in  his  wife's  name,  being  a 
boarding-house  whose  inmates  were  secretly  and  sharae- 
fully  proud  of  Geordie's  unique  superiority  in  bin  own 
particular  line,  for  he  could  outdrink  the  countryside. 

The  very  Saturday  which  preceded  my  Sunday  as  a 
candidate  of  St.  Cuthbert's  (they  afterwards  told  me) 
Geordie  was  in  the  kindly  grip  of  the  town  constable, 
who  was  bearing  him  towards  the  gaol,  his  victim 
loudly  proclaiming  to  the  world  that  the  guardinn  of 
the  law  had  arrested  him  only  when  he,  Geordie,  had 
refused  to  trpit  for  the  eleventh  time. 

"  He  tret  ♦  .a  aiost,  an'  I  tret  ten  times  or  mair," 


Geordir;  -^m-i 
stree*-,     ";•); 

age  th  v:; 


!;t- 


IT  ■; 


There's  i« 


lently  affirming  to  a  sympathetio 
:omer,  they  met  no  less  a  person- 
riv,  the  session  clerk. 
^?»  him  tak'  me  to  the  lock-up. 
V  minister  i*  the  kirk,"  he  cried, 
"an'  I  maun  gang  to  hear  him  preach  the  morn. 
Sandy,  wull  ye  no'  bid  him  no'  to  tak'  me  to  the 
lock-up  ? " 

But  Sandy  was  a  man  under  authority,  having 
eiders  under  him,  and  he  refrained,  knowing  the 
boundaries  of  his  power. 

Passing  along  a  quiet  street  some  years  after  this, 
I  beheld  the  unreforming  Geordie  in  a  savage  tight 


tl 


,'■ 


itmgimati 


IfllHHI 


r 


7»         ST.  CUTHBEST-S  OF  THE   WEST 
"ith  a  kindred  ^Wt,  who  drew  hia  i,.pi„a.„  fr„„ 

ttey  hU  rel««d  together.  The  two  men  foiht^ 
^,  abandoning  themeelvee  the  more  Mxft, 
the  combat  they  both  knew  would  end  in  a  reCj  S 
brotherhood  and  beer.     Thie  thought  lent  a  3L ' 

^^t"Z  *"  ""'  ""^  "''»'•  '«  -="  '•"^. 
r'tl'rr  ir^'  """  »g«ge«ent  worthy  of 
'ne  treaty  (»  fittmg  word)  that  awaited  n..™  .» 
the  Travellere'  Eest  ""  " 

"  Di°°«  "««k  me,  Jock,  dinua  mark  mej  for  we're 
^«  to  hae  the  bairn  baptized  i"  the  kirk  he  ml^" 
"d  I  knew  not  which  to  admire  more,  gZ2i, 
mo»l  versatility,  or  the  beautiful  comity  0'  w« 

Geord.e  did  appear  in  the  kirk  with  the  bate  the 

^«t  mommg^„i^  «-P'  ^1  —1  -oCt 

He  id  not  take  the  vowe.  of  coure^theee  we« 

turned  by  hie  long-sulfering  and  devoted  ZJZ 

Geord.e  felt  he  should  be  there  a.  collate™.  ^' 

I  coveted  Geordie-e  eoul,  and  longed  to  add  1 

regeneration  to  the  now  AcU  of  the  ApTtkr  w! 

op^rtunity  ^  speak  with  him  was  evcr'Ttedl 

ThL  h  71 "°"' '"  ""'  ^""^^  ■''=""'»  I  »"»'  recount 
There  had  ^en  an  election  for  the  town  council,  which 
had  half  „  jeke  and  half  in  jealousy,  returned 
««ord.e  as  the  councillor  of  his  ward  ;  for  our  gloril 


MY  PIOUS  PROFLIGATE 


79 


manhood  lufirage,  as  someone  has  pointed  out,  makes 
Judas  Iscariot  as  influential  at  the  polls  as  the  Apostle 
Paul. 

Returning,  the  night  of  the  election,  from  a  sick- 
bed visit,  I  overtook  the  jubilant  Geordie,  full  of 
emotion  and  other  things.  His  locomotion  was  irre- 
gular and  spasmodic,  his  course  original,  picturesque, 
and  variable.  Geordie  was  having  it  out  with  the 
law  of  gravitation. 

He  was  as  a  ship  returning  from  Jamaica,  a  precious 
cargo  of  spirits  in  its  hold,  and  labouring  heavilj 
in  the  trough  of  the  sea.  I  essayed  to  take  his  arm, 
intending  to  be  his  wheelsman  home,  but  it  was  like 
trying  to  board  a  vessel  in  a  storm ;  for  Geordie  had 
at  least  a  hundred  routes  which  he  must  traverse 
with  impartial  feet.  After  I  had  somewhat  managed 
to  adopt  his  swing,  I  sought  to  deal  faithfully  with 
him,  though  it  was  like  preaching  from  the  plunging 
deck  of  a  ship  at  sea,  while  the  breath  of  my  swaying 
auditor  suggested  that  the  aforesaid  cargo  had  sprung 
a  leak. 

He  was  raising  a  double  peean  to  voice  a  twofold 
joy :  the  first,  the  joy  of  triumph  in  the  recent  contest ; 
the  second,  the  historic  and  imperishable  joy  that  he 
was  a  Scotsman  born. 

"Yon  whelp  I  skelpit  the  day  was  naething  but 
an  Irishman,"  he  cried  loftily.  "I  canna  get 
Robbie  Bums'  graun'  words  oot  o'  my  heid:  'The 
Scotsmen  staun'  an'  Irish  fa' — let  him  on  wi'  me,' " 


.^1 


i 


h 


% 


III 


a^MM 


8o 


ST.  CVTHBEST'S  OF  THE   WEST 


schooner  amid  stormy  aeaa  ^  * 

moorings—  e  a  Doat  that  trub..  .ts 

aye  tak'  the  epeerits  o'  oor  n.!       ,    !        ^  ^^""^ 

attack  mu8t  be  plain  and  straight  ' 

Tha  8  a  noht,  minister-dmna  fash  yorsel'      n, 
no  mention  it  to  a  Hmi I      \k      .     ,       "  J't-rsei.     m 

ton  masel'   'iTr  h  ^""^^  ^^'  ^^"^^  ^  ^^^  been 

masel,    peetiably  seetivated/  as  ve   r^'  ,>    k  • 

mair  learned  nor  me  •  to  hp  h.    ^     !  '  ^^"^ 

r  me .  to  be  honest  wi'  ye,  I'm  juiat 


Aiy  PIOUS  PROFLIGATE 


8i 


a  wt2  Kit '  peetaably  seetivated  '  this  very  nicht  Bat 
rU  tak'  ye  hame  for  a'  that,  an*  nane  '11  hear  teU  o't 
frae  Geordie  Lorrimer." 

Then  he  plunged  again,  propelled  by  the  sense  of 
a  new  responsibility,  and  for  a  minute  we  two  per- 
formed, tnaided  and  alone,  the  several  different  parts 
of  an  eight-hand  reel. 

Nevertheless,  I  relinquished  not  my  hold,  for  I  was 
truly  attached  to  the  fellow,  and  in  due  time  we  made 
a  mile,  thoujrh  I  know  t' e  cyclometer  would  have 
recorded  ten.  More  hopeful,  I  was  steaming  on,  a 
clerical  tug  boat,  when  of  a  sudden  Geordie  stopped, 
pointing  with  his  right  leg  high  in  air,  trusting  me 
and  his  left  to  perform  the  relief  duty  thus 
demanded. 

"Yon's  ma  coo,  ma  Ayrshire  coo,"  he  exclaimed, 
pointing  with  hia  initial  leg  to  the  white-fact.'  cow 
which  lay  among  its  kindred,  its  jaw  gently  swingmg 

"  The  beast  disna  ken,"  I  heard  him  mutter ;  then 
he  suddenly  bolted,  breaking  his  tether,  and  before 
I  could  recover  him  he  had  shambled  on  to  the  road 
witn  the  gait  of  a  delirious  camel,  and  kicking  his 
innocent  property  from  behind,  cried  out 

"Get  Oct  o'  that.  Sic  like  a  thing,  to  be  lyin' 
wi'  the  common  herd.  Mind  ye,  ye're  no'  an  or'nary 
man's  coo — ye're  a  cooncillor's  coo."  Then  he  re- 
traced his  labyrinthiau  steps  in  a  corresponding 
swath. 

As  we    drew   nea:    his    bumble   gat;   (how  often 


'ill" 

m 


A  l\ 


>r 


8> 


ST.  CVTHBBRT'S  OP  THE   WEST 


Oeordie  h«i   m«le   that   l..t  port   with    pain),  h, 
muttered  to  himself  refleotiTely— 

"I  ped   him   hell,"   referring    donbtleea    to   the 
vanqmehed  candidate. 

Whereat  I  took  him  to  taek  right  sternly,  giving 

msnlt  to  his  minister  and  friend. 

In  reply,  he  feU  upon  me,  literally  «,d  figuratively, 
with  tones  of  reproachful  tenderness 

(  Youd  better."  said  I  to  myself,  for  I  was  ^ry.) 
I  own  ye  as  a  faithfu'  guide,  an'  I  wudn.  gie  ye 
pa.n  For  weVe  had  oor  ain  times  thegither.  I 
micht  maist  sayas  'at 'We  twa  hae  paiddled  i' the 
burn,   only  it  wudna  be  becomin'.     But  aboot  that 

rir;  '°  "*  "^  "^  ^'™''  '»»  'h«  Pulpit  " 
how  hell  IS  a  m«et  awfu"  feelin"  i"  the  breist     Verra 

thf  H  T,V'  """''  "  ""^  y°"  ^™''  ""elp  I  skelpit 
the  day  U  hae  a  waesome  feelin'  i'  his  breist !  That's 
a  the  meanm'  I  desired  tae  convey.  It's  nae  wrang 
when  Its  expoan'it     Gnid-nicht  tae  ye,  minister." 


XI 


.    ii 


PLUCKING   A   FI3KY   BRAND 


gUT  there  are  others  of  whom  I  have  better  things 
to  record,  and  indeed  better  thinga  shaU  yet  be 
set  down  by  me  concerning  Geordie  Lorrimer  before 
these  short  and  simple  annals  shall  have  ended.  For 
there  is  nothing  so  joysome  to  record  as  the  brighten- 
mg  story  of  a  soul  coming  to  its  real  birth  from 
the  travail  of  its  sin  and  struggle.  For  per- 
chance time  itself  is  God's  great  midwife,  and  man's 
writhing  agony  is  to  the  end  that  he  may  soon  be 
born. 

The  serious  wiU  doubtless  wish  to  learn  what  befell 
me  in  my  eflFort  to  beguile  the  rugged  Donald 
MThatter  and  his  wife—who  had  quit  the  kirk  when 
the  kirk  quit  the  tokens— back  to  the  worship  of  the 
sanctuary.  It  is  many  years  since  they  returned 
to  St.  Cuthbert's  hallowed  shrine,  and  they  now  sing 
the  uncreated  song. 

For  they  have  joined  that  choir  invisible  wh-e 
voices,  trained  by  God,  blend  in  perfect  unison,  but  • 


f  i 


hi 


mmmmm 


U         Sr.  CUTHBERT'S  Of  THE   WEST 

«ot  m  ame;  for  they  reckon  not  by  dm  and  t»» 
"here  they  have  gone  to  dwea  ' 

It  may  be  ,et  down  ae  certain  that  I  woold  never 

I  abandoned  argumont  and  adopted  friendship. 

Ju      Tr"''   *"   "^  ■^<''  ™«"i"  «   people', 
.oule  a3  well  aa  a  bill  „,  fare  will  suffice  a  hn^<^ 

r-  '"'  *'  """•"  '"o^  "  •  Afferent  „X 
Argumen  may  be  botany,  but  friendship  is  a  flow„ 
and  one  httle  violet  is  bettor  than  one  big  vdZ' 
or  a  thousand  of  then,,  as  far  a,  that  goes."  m,™' 
perhaps  the  same  thing  a,  to  say  that',  living  dog 
.»  better  than  a  dead  lion,  for  most  big  book.  1 

s^^iT^rott^""'-^---— 

And  when  I  deUver  the  Yale  leotnres  t»  youne 
mm«te™.  I  shall  tell  then,  that  there  is  a  bless^'™i ' 
.holy  cozenage  of  the  heart  whereby  they  n>ay^ 
their  people's  souls  by  stealth.     And  if  a  parson  hl^ 

-ivrda'rrrit,"*'"^''"*''''^^''- 

I  had  to  build  my  friendship  with  Donald  brick  bv 
bnck.  a.d  oftentimes  it  swayed  before  bis  bias™  A 
hundred  fmes  I  could  have  been  justly  angry  and  fot 
ever  done  w,th  him.  But  I  knew  a  man.  a  Ly  nl 
relahon,  w.th  whom  God  might  oftener  hive  done  tZ 
-me,  and  had  not;  besides.  I  remembered  that  adroit 
P^tmon  m  the  lord's  Prayer,  which  is  the  plumm" 


PLUCKING  A  FIERY  BRAND 


85 


of  the  Boul'e  eincerity — and  I  bad  read  of  One  who 
reviled  not  again. 

"  In  daya  far  by,"  he  charged,  "  oor  faithers  said 
wi'  pride  as  hoo  the  ministers  0'  God  were  dyin' 
for  the  tmth;  but  in  thae  modem  days,  a'  men  say 
aa  hoo  they're  dyin'  for  their  steepin' "  (stipend). 

Now  this  was  hard  to  bear,  for  I  had  declined 
larger  stipends  than  I  accepted  from  St.  Cuthbert's, 
and  some  would  say  that  this  was  a  right  and  proper 
time  to  stand  upon  my  dignity.  But  what  is  so 
dignified  as  the  Cross,  planted  in  the  very  centre  of 
shame's  garden  ?  I  had  long  before  determined  that 
no  man  can  stand  on  dignity,  for  it  must  be  dignity 
that  stands  upon  the  man,  and  by  no  act  or  word  of 
his,  be  it  remarked,  but  by  the  high  act  of  God.  For 
those  men  who  stand  on  dignity  are  top-heavy  things, 
pigmies  upon  stilts,  triangles  upside  down. 

Therefore  I  was  patient  with  Donald,  and  guarded 
our  infant  friendship  as  a  lost  hunter  shields  his  last 
remaining  match.  I  said  little  to  him  about  church, 
and  much  about  the  highlands.  For  Donald  was  a 
belated  highlander,  his  parents  having  lapsed  to  the 
lowlands,  where  birth  took  him  at  a  disadvantage; 
but  he  was  ever  struggling  to  recover  Inverness. 

"  I  was  a  hielandman  afore  I  was  bom  and  a  low- 
landman  after.  I  kind  0'  flawed  doon  like,  ye  ken," 
he  said. 

I  nodded  acquiescence,  for  it  is  a  favourite  theory 
of  mine  that  a  man  is  born  cf  his  grandparents  juat 


»|;|1 


I 


H 


^ 

'■ 

,1 

* 

'H 

B 

^■"\ 

!     t 

f^^l 

1^, 

»^H 

f. 

^^^^H 

j^l 

^    ■■:, 


Mi    I 


W         ST.  CUTHBERrs  OF  THE    WEST 

aa  much  as  of  hia  father  and  his  mother;  they  are 
equally  responsible.  I  hold,  but  have  the  advantl" 
of  an  earlier  retreat.  '""■•ge 

It  wa,  DonaWe  great  delight  to  recount  the  flghtimr 
^Ue  •  -^  highland  aneestora     In  aU  that  blo^ 

to  It,  and  Donald  wae  off-over  the  hills  and  far  awav 
h«  gmd  blue  bonnet  on  hia  head,  hia  burly  bZ' 

Chnet«^„  days,  those  shameful  splendour,  of  feuZnd 
md  and  massacre,  those  mutual  pleasantries  of  human 
P«-st.okmg,  those   civilised  «.vagerie3  «,d  ehivalrio 

l^ndye,   ho  would  say, -half  the  time  thevdidna 

a  rbl/'TT  '""''"'  '"»°'-     »-'  """M™^ 
a  the  better  for  tha^-the  graun'  human  principle  was 

'rj  ^'  ':''"*'  '"'■  ""■ "-' "-  «•  «■« 

ftem   feoht     When  he  gied  the  word,  hieland  foot 
was  never  slow  and  hieland  bluid  w«,  never  h«gin' 

gin  the  MThattets  had  ta'en  him  up  r " 

terruptod  h«  gentle  wife,  now  somewhat  aroused,  for 
her  maiden  name  was  Elsie  Campbell,  and  she  had 
her  own  share  of  highland  memories,  -They  were 
guui  eneuoh  fechtcrs  in  the.,  way,  nae  doot,  but  U 
wasua  the  Campbell  way.    Yi,   MPLatter  f  et  tha 


V^TPi^ 


^f^ 


>    *l 


PLUCKING  A  FIERY  BRAND 


87 


ye're  hayerin'  aboot  was  never  slow  when  the  Camp- 
bella  waa  comin*.  I'll  grant  ye  that — the  Campbells 
did  them,  ye  ken  that  fine,  Donald." 

"Hoots,  wununan,  ye  dinna  ken  what  yir  eayin'. 
Div  ye  no'  mind  the  battle  o'  the  bluidy  shirt,  an' " 

"Hand  yir  wheesht — 1  canna  bide  to  hear  aboot 
thae  bluidy  shirts  an'  things.  It's  a  fair  scunner,  and 
the  minister  hearin'  ye  to  the  bargain,"  Elsie  shut 
him  off  triumphantly  in  propriety's  great  name. 

The  first  real  olive  branch  of  friendship  whicli 
Donald  extended  to  me  was  under  cover  of  the  bag- 
pipes. I  knew  he  was  relenting  when  he  first  asked 
me  if  I  would  like  to  hear  him  play.  I  forged  a  pious 
lie,  declaring  it  would  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure. 
Surely  that  sin  has  been  atoned  for ;  I  have  suffered 
for  it  as  no  tongue  can  tell.  The  world  needeth  a 
new  Dante,  to  write  a  new  Inferno,  with  the  bagpipes 
thrown  in.  Then  will  that  sombre  picture  of  future 
suffering  be  complete.  I  make  no  rocklesa  charge 
against  those  aforesaid  instruments  of  music,  face- 
tiously so  called.  T'la  bii^pipes  are  a  good  thing  in 
their  place,  but  t^u  ir  pla.cc  js  with  Dante  and  his  Inferno, 

They  have  suiviveJ  ''aly  as  bull -dogs  survive, 
from  a  perverted  sentiiiient,  m.C  mal-educated  taste. 
For  the  Scotsman  i«  LLe  ajo.-;,*-  sentimental  amon*? 
men,  stubbornly  and  Tnalicior.gly  r.i'i  relentlessly 
sentimental.  The  bagp'^es  are  a  legacy  from  the 
grim  testament  of  war,  ana  V:^.^  savage  breath  of 
other    days    belches    through    <;L-''Tn    yet      Ah    me ! 


II 


1 J 


■Hi 


88 


ST.  CUTHBERT-S  OP  THE   WEST 


well  conceal   my  joy  that   the   emblem  of   iX,/ 

ttr    J^l  h    '»«"o->«.tog  thing,  in  thi.  ™l.  „, 

pZ;  jLt  ^'  ""k  '™'  •»"I^'-««™»d.  for  her  no 
prowling  bear,  for  her  no  wreamin.  eaele—hnt  fi,- 

z:tTr  '-^  '^'^'-  ^'^'  «''5m^  i*d 

W  wA  '  "'"'""''  '^■'  '""'■"i  b/«.rrow  ™t 
there  hath  been  music  in  it,  voice  for  all  thTTr  ■ 
listening  world  and  th«  a     a  '  happier 

w.ni  nn«x^:^r:rd::tr;:^ 

o™  field,  and  meadow,,  making  gUd  the  heart,  wUh" 
her  humble  cottage,,  whce  only  wealth  i.  ,ove. 
But    Donald',   fervent    p«Bi„n    ,„,   a;,         , 

music  L  .  [  "'  '"'"'  '•«K«"«d  that  Iri,h 

n>us,c  wa,  ,upenor,  he  would  doubtle,,  have  bidden 

d.d  w,th  mystenon,  tendeme,,.     Then  he   adjusted 

or  td  '°  "'  "P''  '""«  '  --'^  braced  C 

ror  %he  gathering  etonn. 

I  had  not  long  to  waif       it«  ^      j    , 
back  and  forward  for  a  ZL         ^°?     dramatically 
wa.  like  one  who  pX' htrauTtrrS  1^ 

r^an'-T;;i„^;i:--'-.-«-^^^ 


elbow  a,  if  .prompt  It  for  th:eZi:rf™r 


PLUCKING  A  FIERY  BRAND  89 

thing  emitted  one  or  two  sample  wunda.  not  odious 
particularly,  but  infantile  and  grimly  prophetic,  like 
the  mitial  squeaks  of  some  windful  babe  awaking 
from  its  sleep.  Then  the  thing  seemed  to  feel  its 
strength,  to  recognise  its  dark  enfranchisement,  and 
broke  into  such  a  blasphemy  of  sound  as  hath  not 
been  heard  since  the  angels  alighted  where  they  fell. 

I    have  heard    the   deep   roar  of   the   ocean,  and 
have  listened  to  the  screech  of  the  typhoon  through 
befiddled  sails ;  I  have  shuddered  at  the  savage  yell 
of  the  hyena,  and  have  grown  cold,  even  in  the  tropics, 
before  the  tooting  of  the  wounded  elephant;  I  have 
heard  the  eagle  rend  the  firmament  and  the  midnight 
fog-horn  ring  the  changes  on  eternity—join  them  all 
together,  and  they  will  be  stiU  but  as  a  viUage  choir 
compared  with  the  infinite  and  full-orbed  bray  of  the 
highland  bagpipes. 

After  the  first  shock  of  sky-quake  had  subsided 
Donald  turned  and  looked  at  me  with  a  rapt  and 
heavenly  smile,  the  thing  emitting  sundry  noises  all  the 
while,  like  fragments  from  a  crash  of  sound,  compara- 
tively mild,  as  a  stream  which  has  just  run  Niagara. 

I  stood,  dripping  with  noise,  fearful  lest  the  tide 
might  rush  in  again,  and  looking  about  for  my  hat. 
if  haply  it  might  have  been  cast  up  upon  the  beach. 

"  Wasna  that  a  graun'  ane?"  said  the  machinator. 
"It's  -aa  often  yell  hear  the  like  o'  that  in  Canada. 
There's  jist  ae  man  beside  masel'  can  gie  ye  that  this 
side  o*  Inverness — and  he's  broke  i'  the  win'." 


If 


fi: 


■  4i 


»  n 


I'* 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1^ 


2.8 

3.2 

■  3.6 

■  4.0 


125  11.4 


23 
2.2 

2.0 
1.8 

1.6 


^  APPLIED  IM/IGE     Inc 

^^  1653   East   Mam   Street 

gva  Rochester.    Ne*    York         U609        USA 

'-^=  (716)    482  -  0300  -  Phone 

SS  (716)    288  -  5989  -  Fax 


) 


1 

!  1 


99         ST.  CUTH3ERT*S  OF  THE   WEST 

"Thank  God!"  I  ejaculated  fervently,  not  knowing 
what  I  said. 

But  Donald  misunderstood  me,  and  I  had  nothing 
to  fear. 

"  Ye're  richt  there,"  he  cried  exultantly ;  "  it's  what 
I  ca'  a  sacred  preevilege  to  hear  the  like  o'  that, 
raaist  as  sacred  as  a  f  salm.  Ma  faither  used  to  play 
that  very  tune  at  funerals  i'  the  hielands,  and  the 
words  they  aye  sang  till't  was  these: 

'Take  comfort,  Christians,  when  your  frienda 
In  Jesua  iall  asleep,' 

an'  it  used  to  fair  owercome  the  mourners.  If  ye 
were  gaun  by  a  hoose  i'  the  hielaud  glens,  and  heard 
thae  words  and  that  tune,  ye  cud  mak'  sure  there  was 
a  deid  corpse  i'  the  hoose." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  was  my  response ;  but  he  perceived 
nothing  in  the  words  except  reverent  assent. 

"  Ay,"  went  on  Donald,  "  it's  a  graun'  means  0'  rest 
to  the  weary  heart.  It's  fair  past  everything  for 
puttin'  the  bairns  to  sleep.  Mony's  the  time  I  hae 
lulled  them  wi'  that  same  tune  when  their  mither 
cud  dae  naethin'  wi'  them.  I  dinna  mind  as  I  ever 
heard  a  bairn  cry  when  I  was  playin'  them  that  tune." 

"  I  quite  believe  that,"  I  replied,  burning  to  ask 
him  if  fchey  ever  cried  again.  But  I  refrainad,  and 
began  my  retreat  towards  the  door. 

"Bide  a  wee;  I  maun  gie  ye  'The  MacGregor's 
Lament.' " 


PLUCKING  A  FIERY  BRAND  91 

But  I  was  obstinate,  having  enough  occasion  for 
my  own. 

"  Hoots,  man,  dinna  gang — it's  early  yet." 
"  But  I  reaUy  feel  that  I  must  go.  I  would  sooner 
hear  it  some  other  time."  At  my  own  funeral,  I 
meant.  "Besides,  Mr.  M'Phatter,  the  bagpi^s 
always  influence  me  strangely.  They  give  me  such 
a  feeling  of  the  other  world  as  kind  of  unfits  me  for 
my  work." 

Whereupon  Donald  let  me  go.  As  I  fled  along  the 
lane  I  watched  him  holding  the  thing  still  in  his 
hand,  and  I  feared  even  yet  lest  it  might  sUp  its 
leash. 

But  I  have  been  thankful  ever  since  that  Donald 
did  not  ask  me  which  other  world  I  meant. 


X-} 


lit 

ft  .  ■ 


XII 


"BY   THAT   SAME   TOKEN" 

npHIS  was  the  first  step  towards  the  return  of  the 
-*■  MThatter  family  to  St.  Cuthbert'a  Church.  I 
waited  patiently,  stepped  carefully,  and  endured 
cheerfully  every  hardship,  from  the  bagpipes  down; 
but  all  the  time  I  had  before  my  mind  that 
triumphant  day  when  Donald  and  his  household 
would  once  more  walk  down  the  kirk's  spacious  aisle, 
like  the  ransomed  of  the  Lord  who  return  and  come 
to  Zion  with  songs  and  everlasting  joy  upon  their 
heads. 

One  glorious  summer  evening  I  broached  the  matter 
to  them  both.  "♦;  was  the  pensive  hour  of  twi- 
light, and  Donald  had  been  telling  me  with  thrilling 
eloquence  of  a  service  he  had  once  attended  in  St. 
Peter's  Church,  Dundee,  when  the  saintly  M'Cheyne 
had  cast  the  spell  ,ternity  about  him.  When  he 
had  got  as  nearly  through  as  he  ever  got  with  his 
favourite  themes,  I  asked  him  to  listen  to  me  for 
a  little,  and  not  to  interrupt.  He  promised,  and  I 
talked  on  to  them  for  an  hour  or  more,  the  twilight 


l*i 


M    " 


[;h 


"BYTffATSAM£       )KEN"  „ 

deepening  into  darkness,  and  the  sweet  incense  of 
nature's  evening  mass  arising  about  us  where  we  sat. 
It  was  the  hour  and  the  season  that  lent  themselves 
to  memory,  and  I  armed  myself  with  aU  the  unfor- 
gotten  years  as  I  bore  down  upon  their  hearts.  The 
duty,  the  privilege,  the  joy  of  mingling  with  the 
great  congregation  in  united  voice  and  heart  to  bless 
the  Creator's  name,  aU  thia  I  urged  with  passionate 
entreaty. 

"  Oh,  Donald,"  I  cried  at  last,  forgetting  his  seventy 
years  and  the  title  those  years  deserved,  "  come  back 
come  back,  man,  to  the  fountain  at  which  you  drank 
with  joy  long  years  ago !     Oh,  Donald,  it  is  springing 
yet,  and  its  living  waters  are  for  you.     Years  have 
not  quenched    their  holy  stream,  nor    changed   ^he 
lovmg  heart  of  Him  who  feeds  them.     Donald  man, 
your  pride  is  playing  havoc  with  your  soul.     Are  not 
the  days  shortening  in   upon  you?     You    saw    the 
darkness  fall  since  we  sat  down  together,  and  the 
night  has  come,  and  it  is  always  night  in  the  grave 
Man,  hurry  home  before   the  gloaming  betrays  you  '  ^  ' 

to  the  dark.  ^     ^  jj 

"  Bo  you  not  hear  yonder  clock  ticking  in  the  hall 
that  same  old  song  of  death,  the  same  it  sang  the  night 
your  father's  father  was  born  in  the  glen,  the  same  it 
wailed  the  night  he  died  ?  It  is  none  other  than  the 
voice  of  God  telling  you  that  the  night  cometh  fast. 
Oh,  Donald,  was  it  not  your  mother  who  first  taught  tl 

you  the  way  to  that  holy  spring,  even  as  she  taughfc 

M 


94         ST.  CUTHBERrS  OF  THE    WEST 

your  boyish  feet  the  path  to  yonder  babbling  burn 
which  even  now  ia  lilting  to  the  night?  Donald 
man,  be  a  little  child  again,  anu  come  Ldck  before 
you  die." 

Then  there  was  a  silence  deep  as  death,  and  we 
heard  the  crickets  sing  and  the  drowsy  tinkling  on 
the  distant  hill.  I  spoke  not  another  word,  for  when 
a  great  Scotch  soul  is  in  revolution,  I  would  as  soon 
have  offered  to  assist  at  the  creation  as  seei  then  to 
interfere.  But  I  heard  his  wife  Elsie  sobbing  gently 
and  I  felt  a  tear  on  Donald's  cheek.  My  heart 
caught  its  distilling  fragrance,  like  a  bluebell  on 
some  mountainside,  and  I  knew  that  the  seasons  wore 
exchanging  in  Donald's  soul,  winter  retreating  before 
the  avenging  spring. 

Suddenly  he  arose  and  swiftly  spoke 

"  I'll  gang  back  on  Sabbath  momin' ;  I'll  tak'  ma 
mither's  psahn-buik,  and  I'll  gang." 

He  strode  quickly  towards  the  house ;  as  he  passed 
me  the  rising  moon  shone  upon  his  face,  and  it  looked 
like  that  of  a  soul  which  has  the  judgment  day 
behind  and  eternal  mother-love  before. 

Elsie  walked  with  me  to  the  gate,  and  her  face  put 
the  now  radiant  night  to  shame.  Her  long  ecUpae 
had  ended.  It  was  then  she  told  me  the  secret  of 
the  token  and  her  husband's  love  for  it. 

"  Ye  mauna  thmk  ower  hard  on  Donald ;  I  promised 
to  tell  naebody,  but  ye  willna  let  him  ken.  It 
wasna  the  token  in  itsel',  but  it  was  oor  Elsie  mair. 


^•^^^'■ 


-^ir 


'' BY  THAT  SAME  TOKEN''  95 

Elsie   was  ocr  little  lassie   that's  goue    to  bide  wi 
GoA 

"  Weel,  when  she   was  a  bic  bairn,  she  aye  gaed 
wi'  us  to  the  sacrament,  and  sh.  was  awfu'  ta'en  up 
wi'  the  tokea     She  wad  spell  oot  the  bit  writin'  ou't, 
and  she  thocht  there  was  naethin'  sae  bonnie  as  the' 
picture  o'  the  goblet  on  the  ither  side  o't.     And  she 
wad  thnist  her  wee  bit  haun'  intU  Donald's  wes'coat 
pocket,  where  he  aye  keepit  the  token,  an'  she  wad 
tak'  it  oot  an'  luik  at  it.  an'  no'  ask  for  sweeties  or 
gang  to  sleep  or  greet,  like  ither  bairns.     And  when 
she  was  deein'.  she  askit  for  it,  and  she  dee'd  wi'  it  in 
her  haun'.     An'  that  verra  nicht,  when  Donald  an'  me 
was  sittin'  fon'lin'  her  gowden  curls  an'  biddin'  ane 
anither  no'  to  greet— for  ae  broken  hairt  can  comfort 
anither  broken  hairt—he  sHppit  the  token  frae  oot  her 
puir  cauld  wee  haun',  an'  he  read  the  writin'  that's 
on't    oot    lood:    'This    do   in   remembrance   of  Me," 
an'  he  says,   'I'll  dae    it   in  remembrance  o'  them 
baith,  mither— 0'  Christ  an'  oor  Elsie— an'  when  I 
show  forth   the  Lord's  death   till  He  come,  I'U  aye 
think  0'  them  baith,  an'  think  o'  them  baith  thegither 
in  the  yonderland—Christ  an'  oor  Elsie— an'  me  an 
you  tae,  mither,  a'  thegither  in  the  Faither's  hoose. 
An'  a'  the  time  o'  the  funeral  he  handed  the  token 
ticht,  an'  he  keepit  aye  sayin'  till  himsel',  '  Clirist  an 
oor  Elsie — an'  us  a'.' 

"  Next  Sabbath  was  the  sacrament,  an'  Donald  gaed 
alane,  for  I  cudna  gaug- and  that  was  the  day  they 


!  < 


11 


9«         ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OP  THE   WEST 

teU't  the  fowk  hoo  commuDion  cird.  wm  fetMr,  an 
hoo  they  wudna  »«  the  tokens  ony  mair.  Then 
Donald  gnppit  the  «at.  an'  he  ro«e  an'  gaed  oot  o" 
the  kirk,  an  cam  hame,  an'  gaed  till  hia  room,  an'  I 

tZ  Z  .'"  ''°\""  ""  «'"'"^'''      Oh,  minister, 
dinna  think  ower  hard  aboot  him.     That',  why  he 

never  gaed  mair  to  the  kirk,  tor  he  kyed  oor  Elsie 

I  pressed  her  hand  in  parting,  but  I  spoke  no 
wo«i,  for  I  was  thir;dng  passionately  of  those  golden 
urls  and  that  Uttle  hand  ia  which  the  token  lay 
tightly  clasped;  but  it  wa^  our  Margaret's  face  that 
was  white  upon  the  pillow.  Love  is  a  great  in- 
terpreter. 6  >=«•»  Ul 

The  ne:tt  Sabbath  morning  saw  Donald  and  Elsie 
m  the  courts  of  Zion,  and  great  peace  was  upon  their 
brows.  When  I  ascended  the  pulpit  ..Trs,  they 
were  already  m  the-,  ancestral  pew,  now  the  pr;perty 
of  Hector  CampbeH,  who  had  abandoned  it  4th  joy 

Itht"''^:'  ™"  "-^  the  gallery  fim 

Which  he  might   -Q     .    .Id's  face. 

We  opened  ou.         .ce  with  the  Scottish  psalm- 

"How  lovely  u  Thy  dwelling-place, 
0  Lord  of  hosts,  to  me," 

and  a  strange  thing  befell  us  then.  Donald  was 
smging  huskily,  struggling  with  a  storm  which  had 
Its  centre  in  his  heart,  all  the  more  violent  because  it 
was  a  summer  storm  and  fed  from  the  inmost  tropics 


"BY  THAT  SAME   TOKEN"  9; 

of  his  .oul.     But  it  was  the  part  Elsie  took  in  that 
great  psalm  which  is  still  the  wonder  of  all  who  were 
there  that  day.  though  her  voice  hath  long  been  silent 
m  the  grave.     She  had,  years  before,  been  reckoned 
the  sweetest  singer  of  all  who   helped    to  swell  St 
Cuthbert's  praise.     Ifer  voice   had   been    trained   by 
none    but    God.    yet    its    power    and    richness    were 
unequalled.     Eut    he-  last   song    had    been    by    the 
bedside  of  her  dying  child,  and  those  who  heard  her 
say  there  was  not  a  faltering  note. 

And  now   her  voice  was   released  ogain,  and   her 
unchained  soul,  aflame  with   its  long-silent   love  for 
the  courts  of  Zion.  found  in  that  voice  its  highway 
up  to  God.     No  psalm-book,  -0  note  of  music  made 
by    hand,    no    human     thought    repressed    her    or 
trammelled  her  exultant  wing.      Uncaged,  she  sane,  as 
the  lark  sings  when  native  meadows  bid  its  exile  celse 
From  the  first  note,  clear  and   radiant,  as  on  a 
golden    staircase    h.r   voice    went    upward   with    ito 
loving  sacrifice.      All  eyes  were    turned    upon    her^ 
all  other  voices   hushed   in  wonder,  while  even   tlie' 
wondering    precentor    abdicated     to   join    the    vase,] 
throng.     But  she  knew  it  not-knew  nothing,  indeed. 
but  that  she  was  again  in  the  unforgotten  house  of 
God,  and   pouring  out   her   soul    to   the  soul's  grea* 
Comforter.     And  she  sat  down  with  the  others  when 
the  psalm  was  done,  but  wist  not  that  her  face  .hone 

The  kirk  session  was  convened  in  my  room  afte- 
4 


f   i 


:! 


ii 


98 


1  f 


41 


^7!  CUTIlBERrs  OF  THE    WEST 


the  great  service  ceaaed.  and  the  glow  o/  joy  was  on 

parted  lip,  diaclo^U  their  deep'rejoicin^^tt,!';' 
a  momeuc,  aa  jrou  have  caucht   th.  i  a     ,1 

«';».. ..wo.d,o,Bo.:da.dh^K..  and  "" 

TLey  were  Btern  men,  and  ruled  the  kirk  with 
steruneee;  they  had  dealt  faithfully  Jtl^er.  T. 
o«  who  sought  to  reatore  the  rjgu  1,  I  tot" 
«g«..«t    the  oxpresaed  .-uliug  of    the  ,ela     TK 
mpped  contumacy  in  the  bud.  *"' 

But    it  waa   moved   by   PonnH    nr.r- 
seconded  by  Saundo..  M.Denu„tt   anf       '"'   "■"■ 
CMried,  "That    the  clerk    h.:  """"""ously 

Donald  MThatter  .,     I        .  '""'^'^    '"   '■"f"™ 
it       the  willof  th"  .  :  ""'  ^'"°  ^'^''"•"-.  «-t 

that  they  be  in  ni  /''''""  °'  ^'^  '^"""'^rt'' 

biiey  oe  m  no  wise  admitfcpd  fn  fk 

except  on  presentation  of  t^k  1'    „  f  °  '"''°"'-" 

='nd  bearing  the  date  of  1845."       '   "''  ""'"'"'^ 


<,-; 


'V  ■< 


XllI 


WITH   THE    WORKMEN 


T  THINK  we    first   realised    the    worth  of   AngiiB 

-*■     Strachan  the  year  of  the  great  strike  among  tlie 

mechanics  of  New  Jedburgh.       That  was  a  tCifible 

year,  and  the  memory  of  it  ie  dark  and  clammy  yet. 

For  our  whole  town,  and  almost  every  mun's  bread 

and  butter,  rose  and    fell  with    the  industry  or  tlie 

idleness    of   our   great   iro.     manufactories.     To   my 

mind,  the  cause  of  the  trouble  was  twofold :  first,  tfjat 

the  proprietors  were  very  rich;  a  u]  second,  that  the 

agitators  were  very  scoundrels.     Fur  wp  ha.    as  happy 

a  class  of  working  men  in  New  Je';uur^'»     «ko  M;em 

ou  the  whole,  as  the  God  of  work  Ic -kcd      wn  ujion. 

They  were  in  receipt  of  fair  and  cousideraUie 

si. ops  were  clean  and  well  ventil.Ued,  u, 

reasonably  short,  especially  if  coinj^ared  v 

the  poor  creatures  whom  greed  and  sel:    : 

behind  the  counters  till  twelve  o'clock  on  a 

niuht.    And  I  have  noticed  that  tJiose  who  L 


loudest  about  long  hours  are  those  who  postron^ 
sliopping  till  ten  or  eleven  of  these  same  Saturday  n: 


nes,  tlx  ir 

'   'urs 

J  of 

s  keep 

iturday 

I  the 


leiT 


flW 


I  1 


I, 


(   ' 


.CO     sr.  cv.Mjjr/rj-s  oj.-  niL  n-Esr 

jW  tho  ,n„»t  p,t,  t,,„y  „,„„,    t„oir  o«„   ho,,,.., 
t he  pr„,„„,,,.„„„  u„  „  .,,,„„  „,      _.^^         '  ''        ■ 

Tl,e  pcoe  „„  broken  when  two  ,lo,.k  ,.„,!  w.  il 
0  g,  n,.a  .„„,  „H„,.  ,„i,,,  ,„.,     ^^,^^^  ^  ^™' 

ol    free.|«,..,  wo.k-.ng  „.,.„  „,,en  tl.oy  „„/„  to  w„,k 
auj  when  to  starve. 

These  {,'entlemeu  soon  nreeir.if-ifA^  . 
;«     1  •  .   .1  I'lt-t-ipitatea  u  general  strikM 

o  whch  the,  took  »  highly  .,,„p„thetfc  part,   .Wv.' 
.»g  the  fla,.g,„g  courage  of  half.,t«rvin.  wive  Td 
chUdrcn    exhorting    then,    to   en.inr.    nntoThe  end 
od  be  .t  a,„d  to  their  Usting  credit,  these  at  re^M 
gentlemen    toded    faithfull,-   to   spread    th«> 
evangel,  desisting  only  three  tin.es  a    1  Ihel  th" 
repa  red    to  th.'ir    «;,  „  ?  ''        °  ™y 

Hotel.  '""■''  '"""''  '"   "■«    r»Perial 

They  pointed  out  to  the  hungry  men  how  well 
plo«s.ng  was  their  hunger  in  the  sight  of   1  ea"n 
•or  .t  would  help  son.e  fellow-workmen  three  ,Z,Z 
mJes  away,  and  possibly  be  of  benefit  to  sLe  tw 

who  had  not  yet  been  born.     Hun,.er    til  ! 

out  tt-ith    i..ff         1  "unf,er,  they  pointed 

-M.    lofty  ar,l,.„r,  might   not   bo   con,f,„table   in 


nrnr  the  wok  km  en 


(01 


1 


every  case  but  it  w.8  glorioiM,  and  in  D.e  line  of 
immortal  fuDie.  All  of  ti.-'  was  "luiov  liai  uiartcfl 
b>  tloir  oc/'asional  giiljiin^  aiui  '  "  .uiK.i.imr,  for  "-ix- 
course  dinnora  are  not  frioinlly  to  <.i!ieroril  oratory. 
When  one  of  tliem  tjot  through,  the  other,  having 
finished  the  pickin;;  of  his  teeth,  would  take  the 
stand  and  div  e  anew  to  those  uud(!r-fcd  iiumorlals 
the  secrets  o.   ...   Book  of  Life. 

Then  their  poor  dupes  would  cheer  with  a  desj.orate 
attempt  at  courage,  but  it  was  to  me  like  the  bleating 
of  sheep  that  are  led  to  the  slaughter.  Wearily  they 
sought  their  once  liappy  homes,  to  find  juipty  lardert 
and  broken-hearted  wives,  their  wondering  children 
crying  for  the  ueceesities  they  had  never  lacked  belore, 
their  clothes  in  tatters,  and  the  roses  departed  from 
their  cheokp. 

Many  a  sick  wife  and  ailing  child  did  I  visit  then. 
pining  for  the  little  delicacies  their  breadwinner  could 
not  afford  to  buy — all  of  this  at  the  behest  of  two 
bespangled  gentlemen,  who  even  then  were  writing 
to  their  distant  wives,  enclosing  suhstintial  cheques, 
and  descanting  eloquently  upon  the  sumptuous  fare 
at  the  aforesaid  Imperial  Hotel. 

Two  sights  there  are  in  this  panoramic  world  which 
greatly  madden  me,  and  they  are  twins. 

The  first  is  the  spectacle  of  a  pot-bellied  landlord, 
his  wife  and  family  sated  with  every  luxury,  as  he 
smilingly  takes  across  the  bar  (have  you  ever  seen 
a  snake  swallow  its  prey  ?      An  eqn.qlly  glim"  9'^ht^ 


I 


(    !, 


103 


ST.  CUTSBEJir:.  OP  THE   WEST 


s'rug.Un^i'ol^..''  ■""'^  *''°™  ''«'^»  wife. 

Meet;'  and   wLr',r  '"'"  ""  """^^  '-m 

of  his  wa-es  -on»      r     ...     ,  """^  farthiog 

hath  pou^d  Co  th        °  ?'""■'  '""""S  """""'^ 

wives  «rcL-e  the  Litd  rcee    HS  :"'"  T'"*^ 

C::rwrh-x:j\:»'---- 

of  him  in  the  years  th..  TJ  .    ^^  '"""^  "^'^^^^ 

Wgh  things  of  chesa,  at  w^h   fe  Ta      T"  '^° 
-i^ter.     But   I  littlL    ^  .  weU-nigh  a 

moves  there  4  b" Ltr:  "  ;"""  '"'^'"■' 
-ting  and  checLatinrand  LtToth  "'"'  "'^' 
■"ay  be  anblimely  mingled  2Z^°^'""^ 
etrut'gle.  ""ngiea   in   that  so   interesting 

We  heard  with  pkasnre  that  Angus  was  mM 
--  progress  in  his  chosen   trade/and  ^en  to^! 


WITH  THE    WORKMEN  ,03 

although  early  in  his  twenties,  he  was  head  draughts- 
man  m  aU  that  great  establishment.  Kight  school^, 
with  wide  and  constant  reading,  had  made  his  English 
almost  as  good  as  new,  and  the  shabby  lad  of  six  or 
seven  years  ago  was  now  a  citizen  amongst  us  of  repute 
and  promise. 

But  that  is  no  rare  occurrence  in  this  new  world  of 
ours,  where  men  have  better  chances  than  the  rigid 
ways  of  the  old  land  will  afford.     For  old  Scotland 
means  that  her  mountains    shall    remain  mountains 
and  her  valleys  she  purposes  shaU  be  valleys  ever- 
more;   and  I  make  Httle  doubt  that  Mr.   Carnegie 
would  have  been  ranked  with  the  valleys  till   they 
received  his  dust   had    he    never  sought  the  wider 
spaces  of  our  Western  World.     From  which  Western 
World  both  their  hills  and  valleys  have  received  his 
dust  in  rich  abundance. 

Passing  a  crowded  hall  one  night  when  this  indus- 
trial  storm  was  at  its  height.  I  heard  a  voice  which 
seemed  famihar  addressing  the  excised  men.  and 
surely  there  hath  never  before  or  since  been  heard  a 
speech  of  greater  sense  and  soundness. 

"Are  we  working  men  fools  enough."  he  was  asking 
as  I  entered.  "  to  be  led  by  the  nose  at  the  will  of 
these  strangers  who  want  us  to  strike  in  the  interests 
of  Chicago  or  St.  Louis  or  San  Francisco  ?  Charity 
begins  at  home,  and  our  firrt  duty  is  to  look  after  our 
own.  If  we  are  going  to  have  dictators  in  ibis  matter 
let  us  choose  them  from  honest  workers  among  our- 


•1 

\ 


1  i  ■ 


I04 


'%<':' 


Sr  CUTHBERT^s  OF  THE    WEST 


a  chanco.  and  tell  mo  whv  th.!  ^°"  «"' 

whit«      V  ,  ^      '^'^  *^^  «°  smooth  and 

me    cried  Angus,  with  growing  passion. 

At  this  point  Jack  Slater  interruoforl       t    ^ 
famed  for  his  hearty  resistanoTt  ■       ^^  ^'""^ 

/  ^«^8  Of  toil.     He  was  the  leading  Socialist  nf  h 
town,   hating   every   man    «,k  socialist  of  tJie 

with     his     hands  ''''  '"   "^'"^^   ^«^i«' 

ms     hands,    always    accepting    the    well  fpr? 

agitators,  whom  he  worsluDDod  w,>h  •  ^^e^^-^ed 

"  T  iii.f  tx-n   *-  f     7        P^  '^^  ignorant  devotion. 

I  just  want  fer  to  asilr  IVfr   c«-      t 

to  bo  makm-  rope,  „f  „,o„ey  while  the  like,  of  1 
only   goto   our    two   dol-ara   a   day?     L     „,    ^ 
equality,  that's  what  1  sar     r  ^"' 

give  me  death.     God   Zi  o!e      "'  °'"""'^  "' 

another,  and  ifs  the  d  vf  •  ™"'   "'   ^'^   -"' 

-^e..     ,..;-J--™.to„ak      t.^^ 

x::r;^rZo~rre:^^^^ 

-  -ati„-  through  the  dog^e  in  the  ah    3"'  "' 

ips,  and   Bob    Taylor,  encouraged   bv  Jack-', 
™eces,   j„n>pcd  to  his  feet  and  shouted- 

brin.  thTh  "  '""  °"  ""'  '^"^■"■"  "»"d  fi"n  and 
bang  the  bosses  up  with  the  short  turn      We  vt 

^o  .t,  for  w.Ve  the  lads  as  n.akes  their  .0!^;  ^ 


WITH  THE    WORKMEN  ,05 

them.  What  them  kerridge  fellows  needs  is  a  hash 
or  two  in  the  jaw  from  liie  horny  hand  of  toil.  I 
goes  in  fer  rotton-eggin'  all  the  scahs  as  agrees  to 
work  lower  nor  the  wage  we  set,  and  if  that  won't 
do,  I  goes  in  fer  duckin"  'eiu  ;  and  if  duckin'  won't 
do,  I  goes  in  fer  fixin'  'em  bo's  they  won't  work 
nowheres.  If  this  is  a  free  country.  let's  have  our 
share  of  the  kerridgcs— I  believe  in  equality  the  sam« 
as  Jack." 

These  views  were  received  with  renewed  expres- 
sions of  approval,  for  to  most  of  the  excited  men 
they  seemed  quite  unanswerable. 

"That's  the  ticket;  make  'em  walk  the  plank 
We're  just  as  good  as  them,"  I  heard  some  burly 
mechanic  mutter. 

The  eager  audience  turned  towards  An^-jus,  awaiting 
his  reply,  if  haply  reply  could  be  provided.  It  has 
been  my  lot  to  hear  many  strong  addresses,  but  I 
esteem  this  answering  speech  of  Angus's  among  the 
strongest  utterances  I  Lave  heard. 

"  Mr.  Slater  wishes,"  he  began.  "  to  know  by  what 
right  our  employers  make  more  money  than  we  do 
In  answer,  let  me  ask  him  by  what  right  lUll 
Montgomery,  the  foreman  in  the  moulding  shop, 
gets  more  money  every  pay-day  than  Tom  Coxford' 
who  is  one  of  his  men.  I  suppose  he  will  admit 
It  18  because  Bill  has  more  ability  and  more  ex- 
perience than  Tom;  he  will  also  admit  that  the 
ditlerence   in   their  wages  is   a   just  difference,   and 


I  ■ 


■        IJ      i-^ 


io6 


Sr.  CVTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 


\\ 


;"'ri '  '■"" "°™'  '"'"■'  ''">-»"° «-'  f"u 

"Well,    carry   out    th.t    pri„ci,,I„,   .„,i    ,„„,„„, 

evoryoiio  a>lmit8  thov  are     tl,„„  i,  »"— "nd 

nn^    V     •  P'^onts   to   the  men  whoso  industrv 

»nd   l,u.,.os,   ability   l.ave   eatabliahed   the   ^etn 
»nd  «„,<,ed  .t  along  ,„  „h„t  ;,  ;,  «'"™" 

aj':if:tr«re,rt:r^r'-  ""-•' 
-toberieHa„dot>,or3t:\rc:',.'"7/::' 

other"  to  I^'  •  ''°t."'"''°  '°°"'   """   ™''«  'ban 
others   to  begm  wUh.     When  we   see   the   hiehest 

nches   hke  thoae  of  brains  and  strength,  unl'X 
d.v,ded,  .0  need  not  wonder  to  see  th!  I  sser^,™  I 
somewhat  unevenly  distributed     God  gives  one  man 
or  a  woman  ,ite  Jon,.y  Lind,  a  voiee'tha    ZZ^ 
thousand   dollars  a  night  as  often  as  they  want  to 
smg  and  He  gives  another  man  a  voice  li  Jan  2„ 
cloek  or  a  buz.-saw.     Ho  gives  one  man  a  mind  that" 

et  h'     Tt  "^  "'  '""•  ■""■  ""»"'-  -»  «  ".  od 

Sr  s'^e  :     S  'T'  f  r  '=  ''-'''  -  -"^  -  «  >-' 
rears  nost      Surely  I  have  more  ground  for  en™n<r 

he  man  who  .s  born  with  more  brains  than  I  Z" 

the  man  who  .s  born  with  more  wealth  than  I     And 


k.4_i._;: 


'i? 


>rraF 


-  <>,'-■ 


WITH  THE    WOKKMEN  ,07 

yet  God  ftlono  is  re8[)oii8ih)o  for  the  first-named  in- 
equality. Wo  hear  too  in.u;h  rubbish  about  this  theory 
of  all  mou  being  equal  liorn. 

"As  for  I?ob  Taylor's  hint  that  wo  should  employ 
violence  to  prevent  men  working  for  what  wagf^  they 
please,  I  have  only  this  to  say,  that  nobody  but  a 
luzy  dog  like  him  would  suggest  such  a  policy. 

"  We  all  know  that  when  the  whistle  blows  in  the 
morning,  Bob  always  tries  how  much  of  it  he  can 
hear    before    he    goes    in;    and    when   it    blows    at 
night,  he  tries  how  much  of  it  he  can  hoar  after  he 
gets  out.     Bob  is  always  slow  at  the  end  where  he 
ought  to  be  quick,  and  quick  at  the  end  where  all 
honest  men   try  at  least   to  be  decently  slow;  and 
then  he  talks  to  us  about  ducking  some  poor  fellow 
who  wants  to  make  an  honest  living  for  his  wife  and 
children.     I  will  say  this  much  too,  that  if  the  time 
ever  comes  when  a  free-born   man   cannot   sell  his 
labour  in  the  market  for  what  price  he  likes,  then  I 
will  turn  my  back  upon  the  old  Union  Jack  and  leave 
its  soil  for  ever. 

"Now,  I  am  going  to  ask  Mr.  Slater  a  question  or 
two  about  this  dividing-up  business. 

"  Do  you  th'-  I:.  Mr.  Slater,  if  a  man  has  a  million 
dollars,  that  L  ight  to  divide  up  with  the  man  who 
has  very  lictle.  if  that  man  happens  to  be  working 
for  him  ?  "  * 

"  Most  sartintly,"  replied  Jack. 

"Very  well,  if  a  man  has  ten   thousand   dollars, 


V\\ 


7 


tns 


■W;  CUTUBBItT-S  OF  THE    WEST 


"■^'ir(.,"a„Hvv,.r,.(lJack  prompt 

f      ":  ""''    *'"  ^«^   '^  mm,  hire,!  to  help  .\\^  it  or 
-P-  Jt.  ..nM  ho  divide  up  with   tins  p^or^ 
■'-;  w»'o  ha.s  neither  hou.o  „nr  garden  ?" 

^•'"•k     .«.itatod.  his   brows    knit   in  thoucrhf    fh„ 
ho  ..inswemi  slowly-^  tnought,   thon 

"N^-iw,  I  don't  just  think  so" 

"  Why  not  ? "  8aid  Angn. 

"Won.  -twonldn't  ho  fair;  bc.i.le..  I  happen  to  h.ve 
t  little  house  and  Kurdon  of  niy  own  " 

Then  an  that  crowd  of  „.en  exploded  in  a  buret 
of  den.vo  laughter  which  set  the  seal  of  triu^  on 
Ancrus's  arf,nunont.  '"urnpn  on 

After  the  uproar  had  subsided,  an  intrenid  «?o.f 

wives  and  bairns  haena  the  luxuries  o' thl 

th<»  wnrUa      T  ^uJturies  o  them  as  owns 

aM     V   1       "°'"'   ""  »""'  «-*  I^bbf,  Burn. 

prose,,.  ,  fitt,n  ooca„on  to  mi„d  ye  o'  the  word, 
b-  as  wcVe  met  the  nicht  to  apeak  J  ^^^ 
slavery  o'  ilka  kind."  against 

"No  man  who  knows  me,"  repUed  Angus,  "  will  say 
that  I  wdl  either  yield  to  slavery  or  assist  it  Tn  any 


_^^---^-'^-^,,.A^-:,'»  ..^.... 


iVlTll   THE    WOK  KM  EN 


torj 


form.  r>iit  til.)  ninn  who  calls  liitnHclf  h  nlavo  hcruiiMc 
hiH  enij.loycr  \\m  inuro  inoncy  tliiri  ho.  i'h  no  friciul  tf 
lioiicM.  lahonr.  Wo  would  all  \\Vv.  w.allli.  hut  wealth 
IB  noitlmr  happiiioHB  nor  jihorty.  After  all,  tho  rnf;r» 
whom  wo  t'livy  have  not  ho  niiifh  niorf  than  wo;  they 
can  only  lie  on  ono  j.illow  at  a  tiiiK;,  can  only  cat  one 
mouthful  at  a  timo,  can  onlyHinoko  ono  oi^'ar  at  a  time, 
and  as  for  tho  kind  of  couch  a  man  gits  down  upon,  it 
mattoFH  little  bo  that  ho  huH  earned  his  rcHt  by  honest 
toil. 

"  My  Scottish  friend  hardly  realisrR  what  ho  says. 
I  know  ho  has  a  wifo  and  a  sweet  littlo  laf;.sio.  Th(  ro 
is  Mr.  Blako,  the  richfjst  of  our  inanufacturers,  and 
he  has  neither  tho  one  nor  the  other.  Now  I  a.'k 
my  compatriot,  would  ho  trado  his  lot  for  that  of  Mr. 
Blake  with  all  his  money  ?  Ho  answers  no.  Then 
who  is  the  richer  man — Mr.  lUake,  or  our  fellow- 
workman  from  auld  Scotland  ? 

"  Speaking  of  Scotland,  let  me  say  this  one  word. 
I  lived  there  till  \  was  a  well-grown  lad,  as  did  scores 
of  you,  and  I  defy  you  to  contradict  me  when  I  say 
that  wc  ire  a  hundred  times  better  ofT  hero  than 
we  were  among  the  sheep  or  behind  the  ploughs  in 
the  old  land,  neither  of  which  we  could  hardly  ever 
Iiope  to  call  our  own.  Were  we  not  there  accounted 
almost  as  sheep  for  the  slaughter?  How  much 
better  were  we  than  the  kine  we  tended  ?  Were  not 
wo  even  driven  from  the  laud  we  rented  at  a  cmcl 
price,  that  some  haughty  lord  might  make  a  deer-run 


110 


sr.  cumjiEjir-s  op  tub  west 


co..n.   our   /Hon  J.,X  I  7?'"°  """""•  ^^ 

Jedbu.,h;  ana  throernhe  o  tht  a,r'"  '"  ''"' 

council,   and    the   trustees   of  f  ™™  '"  "" 

elder.,   of  our  kirks   T,  "   """■""»•  '««»  »!>» 

labour.                      ■  "^  '""'  "'»  f-'nt'  of  hones. 

'y-"^^  al^'r  p!^„7:":  -»P«<'  '-  the  c,,.., 
the  seas."  ^     "'  """"^S"  "'  «'e  land  beyond 

'ac^orrr~tr/7.---rapt 

----edia^entrSrilrfrrt^r 


XIV 

WITH    THK    EMPLOYERS 

J\^OE  was  this  the  last  of  Angus's  eloquence.  A  few 
days  later  the  manufacturers,  being  mot  n  con- 
clave at  Mr.  Blake's  office,  sent  for  the  young  Scotsman 
and  personally  thanked  him  for  his  good  offices  in 
settlmg  the  strike.  Both  sorts  were  there— the  kind 
and  the  unkind,  the  gentleman  and  the  churl— but 
all  alike  united  in  grateful  praise  for  the  mediation 
which  Angus  had  accomplished.  Many  unctuous  things 
were  said,  but  when  one  tyrant  arose  to  speak  his 
gratitude,  Angus's  face  bore  a  look  which  boded  ill 

"  We're  glad."  said  Mr.  M'Dougall.  swelling  with 
vulgar  pompousness,  « to  see  that  you  recognise  the 
rights  of  property  and  the  claims  of  vested  interests 
And  we  trust,"  he  added,  « that  Labour  has  learned 
a  lesson  it  will  not  soon  forget."  Then  he  sat  down 
with  the  majesty  of  a  balloon  descending. 

"I  am  glad,  sir."  replied  Angus,  "to  have  been  of 
service  in  quelling  a  movement  led  by  selfish  and 
grasping  strangers,  but  T  may  at  the  same  time  say 
that  It  would  be  weU  for  Mr.  M'DougaU  and  his  kind 

<1I 


./ 


ita 


sr.  cam^^^r's  o^  riiE  ,,sst 


to  pay  more  heed  themsplv-  *    *u     . 

for  ever  tokrate  the  .olfil"  '  ^'"'"  "'»  -o" 

-h-h  h,  treat,  hi,  hi't      "^  ""  '"'  -""  «■"> 

/■"--eetin«„utVo~::*r" 

i«  voice.  ..  None  of  !^,  «  !'  ""^ "'°'«'  "«  i^"-  m 
'»  long  When  hTw  -  del?"' f '  «'"»"»  -Poke 
a"c,.go,  „„d  let  n,  hear  mI  ^  T  ""  °«''»"'™  ''on. 
~thant...en":rC,\r---^i«Kor 

^^^^^o.etin«  endowed  these  ,enti.:n.„,nd^„.., 

^'  the  ™«„„  „^    '';^^;''  ■;  "ct  a),  on  the  ,i,,e 

^^  -d  sympathetic  n.e„U  XrHfr   '^^ 
^ot.     I  envj.  „o  man  omon»  vn„  T  ^""  "" 

f  thered,  b„t  the  selfish"    f  'T ,  ""^  ''^^"'  »■»  has 

worsisn.„dde„in,rri::;:;'""-- 

Some  of  vou  ],nn.^      .v..      ^^^"^S  man. 
:""'="lt.es,  and,  what  is  „orse°  v!     ■         ''  """  "•" 
™«^-      you  pass  by  the  Z   T  ""  ""'  ""'  '» 
™h  as  though  they  we  e  ti^do       .  ""  "^^'""^  >-' 
.it  ne.xt  pe„  to  them  u  th^Ltf     ."'  "'^^'-     "" 
■^^=  "'0  dirt  beneath  ;  u    Lt     'r'  'f  ''"'  «'™ 

^'-     "  «  doubtless  your 


.   U 


WITH  THE  EMPLOYERS 


1 1 


conviction  that  you  have  discharKccl  your  whole  dutv 
to  us  when  you  pay  oiu:  wages  every  fortnight.  I  tell 
you    he  cried  passionately,  "that  is  thr-  great  fallacy 

Tf  kbour^''  ''  ^'°''  '^'  ""'^'^"^  ''  '''"  ''^P^"y«" 
"You  for|,^et  we  nre  men,  as  well  as  you.  and  hav. 
higher  claims  upon  you  than  your  pay-shoet  aeki.on 
led^c«.  If  our  employer  .lies,  we  follow  him  in  a  body 
to  his  grave.  If  one  of  us  dies,  you  drive  past  hi. 
hearse  with  youx  na.ghty  carriages,  or  bolt  down  -• 
side  street  to  avoid  ti.e  association. 

"TomUmplough.who  has  worked  for  Mr  Thobur- 
twenty  years,  buried    his    only  child   lant  Thursday 
aud  his   employer  spent  the  afternoon    spe^nling  hi= 
thoroughbred  on  the  race-track  beside  the  ccmeterv" 
At  the  very  moment  when  Tom  was  groping  abcH 
the    open   grave,    struggling  with    nis    broken    heur^ 
and  following  his  daughter  with  streaming  eyes   ' 
Thobum  was  bawling  out  that  his  filly  had  done    t, 
m    two  and  a   quarter-and    the  clods  were  falling 
on  the  coffin  all  the  while." 

At  this  juncture  Thoburn  arose,  his  face  Mie  verv 
colour  of  the  corpse  he  had  disdained. 

"  Will  nc  man  throttle  this  fanatic  ?  "  he  hoar^oW 
craved.  "Must  we  be  insulted  thus  Sv  a  mere 
working  man  ? " 

"I  insult  no  man,"  retorted  his  accuser,  "  when  I 
tell  him  but  the  t^uth.  It  was  you  who  insulted 
.ne  dead,  and  outraged  her  desoiato  fatfier  berau«^ 


»M 


ST.  CUTHBERrs  OF  THE   WEST 


«ay    tho 


he   waa    but   your    eervant.      Is   what    I 
truth  ? " 

"I  decline  to  answer  that."  said  Thohurn. 

God.  man,  did  you  ever  think  of  that?     D,d  it  ever 

nUe  ,n  the  «ame  cmveyance.  and  have  the  aame 
uphostery  in  the  tomb?  And  somebody  elseVr 
Will  e  makin,  its  mile  in  less  time  than  yourVwhen 
the  clods  are  fulling  on  yo,ir  collin." 

I   have  often  marvelled  at  this  strange  power  of 
rhetor,  m  an  untutored  man;  but  it  onfy  crnfirLd 

el  •      '°!,'"'''  '°^  "'^'^  ^^""^^  *o  believe-that 
em  t.on  and  intellect  are  twins,  and  that  the  sou^^ 
oratory'i  native  home. 

There  wa,  a  pause,  but  it  was  brief.     For  there 

H  ram  Orme,  the  millionabe  proprietor  of  .he  great 
A  me  wor.a     Vulgar  «,d  proud,  he  lived  a  uH 
ostentatious  luxury. 

Secure  m  the  fortreaa  of  wealth,  which  i»  .  Ije,  he 
cared  uothmg  for  euch  wouuded  aoldiera  a,  had  helped 

»11  sail  set,  he  careened  on  his  inconsiderate  way,  and 
t.-.e  vesse  s  whose  side  he  sought  were  never  hose 
bearing  the  signals  of  distress. 


WITH  THE  EMPLOYERS  ,,5 

Mr.  Hiram  Ormo  hod  a  higfi  contempt  for  all 
working  men,  and  a  keen  auspicion  of  every  attitude 
which  amuckod  of  liberty.     The  working  man,  like  the 

negro,  was  happier  far  in  a  stnto  of  ecmi-Rlav.  ry 

such  was  the  houest  view  of  the  lionest  man. 

And  now  ho  was  upon  his  feet,  glaring  with  wrath, 
profoundly  complacent  in  the  assurance  of  superior 
wealth,  and  prepared  to  demolish  both  Angus  ami  the 
King's  English  at  a  blow. 

"Them's  nice  words,"  he  broke  forth,  "for  a 
working  man  to  be  using  to  the  man  what  he's 
dependent  on  for  to  get  his  bread  and  butter.  A^-.d 
I  want  for  to  tell  this  man  Strachan  that  beggars 
can't  be  choosers.  A  pretty  preachment  he's  givin' 
us  about  coffins  and  them  like  things.  There's  one 
thing  certain,  and  that  is,  me  and  the  rest  of  my 
brother  manufacturers  will  have  a  sight  finer  coffins 
than  him  and  his  sort  will  have."  (The  manufacturer.n 
^.huddered,  like  men  sitting  in  some  deadly  draught.) 

"  We've  had  jist  about  enough  sass  from  our  young 
friend,  I  think ;  he's  nothin'  but  a  hewer  of  wood  and 
a  drawer  of  water  for  us  anyhow.  Doesn't  the  Bible 
tell  servants  like  him  for  to  be  obedient  to  their 
masters  ? " 

Then  Angus's  Scotch  blood  leaped,  protesting,  to 
his  face,  and  his  soul  tore  open  his  burning  lips  aa  the 
tide  bursts  a  dam  built  by  children's  hands. 

"I  eat  honest  bread,  earned  by  honest  toil,"  he 
hotly  cried,  "  and  that  is  more  than  Mr.  Orme  can  eay. 


ii6 


^"^r.  cuTiuiERrs  of  the  west 


I  would  beg  from  door  to  door  before  I  would  munch 
as  ho  does,  the  crusts  that  are  stained  with  blood.' 
^^  e  all  know  how  he  has  ground  his  working  girls  to 
t)-^e^rth,  how  he  has  refused  to  ventilate  his  factories 
«nd  even  to  heat  them  decently  in  the  winter  time' 
We  all  know  how  he  has  spurned  the  poor  and  the 
i.eeoy  with  his  foot,  and  how  he  has  crawled  upon  his 
belly  before  the  rich  and  great.     I  will  tell  you  some- 
mg  about  Mr.  Orme.     It  does  not  apply 'to  all  of 
ou      Some  of   you.  thank  God  I   have  remembered 
that    your    working   men    were    human    beings   like 
yoursolves-you  have  helped  and  befriended  the  sick 
and  the  poor,  you  have  pensioned  the  closing  yeare 
of  faithful  men.     You  have  called  yourselves^ Isk 
or  our  sick  and  dying,  and  we  have  blessed  you  for 
It      What  poor  burdened  hearts  want  is  the  warm 
heart  touch  from  your  own  hands  or  lips,  but  Mr 
Orme  has  given  neither  the  one  nor  the  other 

"  Mr.  Orme.  do  you  remember  Dick  Draper,  who  was 
your  bos8  carder,  and  who  lives  in  a  little  house  behind 
your  mansion  ?  Do  you  remember  that  he  worked 
for  you  ten  or  fifteen  years,  and  that  you  discharged 
him  because  he  would  not  leave  the  Union  ? " 

husklr'  ^  ''"'''^^''  ^'''°"     ^^^^- "  ^^'^'^^'^  0™« 
"I  wiU  tell  you  why.     A  few  months  after  you 
discharged  him.  partly  because  his  health  failed  and 
partiy  because  you  blackballed  him  at  all  other  ^hops 
he  was   still   out   of  work,  his   money  all   gone,  hie 


WITH  THE  EMPLOYERS 


"7 


pantry  bare,  and  his  youngest  boy  dying  of  a  glow 
dioease  of  the  spine.  Some  of  us  went  to  you  and 
asked  you  to  help  ua  raise  enough  to  send  hirn  to 
Montreal  for  treatment  that  might  save  his  life. 
You  showed  us  the  door,  and  told  us  to  tell  him 
he  could  make  his  money  like  you  made  yours.  You 
said  if  the  boy  died  it  would  be  one  mouth  less 
for  Dick  to  feed,  and  told  us  there  was  a  grand 
old  maxim  about  every  man  for  himself  and  the  devil 
have  the  hindermost.  As  we  were  going  down  your 
splendid  avenue,  you  shouted  that  Dick's  spine  was 
stiff  enough  when  he  joined  the  Union.  Then  you 
aaked  us  if  spines  were  hereditary.  Then  you  laughed, 
and  your  barns  and  your  grand  driving  sheds  echoed 
back  its  cruel  mockery." 

Orme  arose  and  started  towards  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Chairman,  I  protest,"  he  began. 

"Sit  doon,"  thundered  Angus,  lapsing  into  his 
native  tongue,  "  sit  doon  till  I  tell  ye  a'.  The  nicht 
Dick's  boy  was  deein',  we  went  to  ye  and  begged 
ye  to  stop  yir  music  and  yir  dancin'.  For  ye 
had  some  graun'  fowk  at  yir  pairty,  an'  the  flowers 
for  it  cost  ye  mair  nor  wad  hae  sent  the  laddie  to 
Montreal.  An'  the  noise  fashed  an'  fretted  the 
deein'  bairn.  But  ye  bade  us  begone,  an'  said  ye'd 
invite  us  to  yir  pairty  when  ye  wanted  us — an'  the 
puir  laddie  dee'd  in  his  faith  er's  airms  to  the  cruel 
music  o'  yir  fiddles  an'  yir  reels,  an'  his  faither 
sat  wi'  him  a'   the   nicht,  croonin'   wi'    sorrow,   an' 


ii 


f 

s  ■ 


I  f 


■  r  » ■ 


: 


xi8 


11- 


Sr.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 


yir  graun-  guests'   kughter  breakin'  on  him  like   « 
blizzard  frae  the  north." 

"Is  the  semou   nearly  done!"  said  Mr.  Orme 

ptl''er™^^Xhe7:r'^^  ^°"  -^"^^^  ^""•™' 
preacher       The  hot  tears  were  in  Angus's  eyes  and 

he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  Orme  was  p^^nt 
the  taunt  was  lost  upon  him.  ^  ' 

"and  Tl  ""^  °t  "'°"'''  '""■'-«  '■°"  ">  »«  others, 
and  I  have  perhaps  spoken  over  warmly.     But  I 

have  uttered  no  word  other  than  the  truth      A^d  \ 

wUl  only  make  ~y  Ust  appeal,  which  I  know  wiU 

have  some  weight,  with  most  of  you  at  least     m^« 

reme..    '„r  aU  this  threatening  troLe  t  in  mut^a 

»ny,   for    1    doubt    not   you   have   your     ™ 

diffleu  fes,  even  as  we  have  ours.     I   am  glad   t^ 

have  helped  to  allay  this  recent  trouble,  and   my 

b»t    ervee  shall  never  be  denied  you  in  t^e  fnt,^e 

But  I  pray  you    h,  consider  the  words  of  a  man 

who  wishes  you  nothing  else  but  good.     Pardon  what 

of  mlence   and  ponder  what  of  reason   has   been 

muced  wuh  what  I  said.     Capital  has   its   I«l«,ur 

X^  h.  its  oapital-and  we  are  all  toU^ 

t^fl  ^T^.^  *'  '""P'"'''"   =""»  ''"hdrew,  but 

he  seed  h,s  hand  had  cast  was  fallen,  some  no    oub 

on^rocky  ground,  but  some  also  on  good  and  honest 

tr-'^nb'^"^'"  ''"'  "^  "  ™'«'-y'  "«  his  greatest 
fcumph  was  unseen,  for  he  had  ruled  his  own  spirit. 


i-a*X."-*SU4,. 


I J  # . , 


mk 


Hm 


n 


WITH  THE  EMPLOYERS 


119 


which  high  authority  assures  us  is  greater  than  the 
taking  of  a  city. 

Not  inconsiderable,  too,  were  the  outward  pledges 
of  his  victory.  For,  as  we  said,  the  sleek  agitators 
had  been  dismissed,  the  mills  and  factories  were 
running  again,  and  the  industrial  tides  of  life  in 
New  Jedburgh  gradually  subsided  into  their  old 
channels. 

And  now  those  unseen  forces  that  are  ever  silently 
working  to  upset  old  standards  and  to  displace  old 
ways,  broke  out  in  a  new  form,  this  time  threatening 
the  very  centre  of  one  of  St.  Cuthbert's  most  estab- 
liahed  customs. 


'J 


i'Hi 


H: 


f 


c    -. 


■ 


yT.'}m 


I  i 


J* 


I 


XV 


A    BOLD    PROPOSAL 

St.  Cuthborte  only  cl,oir  loft.    Many  year,  back 
'';  -™o<^  "Bts  among  tl,«n  had  managed  to  Lther 
a  few  of  the  most  songfd  one,  together  in  a^n 
pew,  demurely   sitting  a,  part    of  'be  congrelZ 
but  concontratod  for    purpose,    of   leadership,     ^^ij 
proved,    however,   more    than    St.    Cutbbert"    cond 
b^e  and  it,  mal-odour  of  "High  Church"  aC d 

.aund  r,    MTav.sh    voiced    the    general   alarm    in 
fcententiou,  tone, 

"  The  thin  end  o'    the  wed,  ^"  u.  ■     . 

claimed,  "and  if,  ^  .""^    ^  warningly  e.x- 

an-  .h.-  n  '"  ">'  -'"'  '"  the  candle, 

an   the  incense.     Thpv'li  k^  i   ■     •  ,  «*"uilo 

^oTf"    o    J    .r     ,      -^  ^''"^'"    °^er  the  pope 

next,     and    the    kirk    Rp«<5mn     o^         •  ^^ 

,.:  w  session,    convening    the    nexf- 

^:  '-'''  ''^''''  '^-  ^-K-  in    .1  ance:::i 

Since    then     the    precentor's    box    had    preserved 

^ta    lonely    splendour.      Within    it,    in    .he    farlt 

tbunderous  day.  of    their  .reafc  T^'  1   ^     ^^ 

meir^  great  Boanerges,  the  pre- 


A  BOLD  PROPOSAL 


lit 


centor  stood  to  lead  the  swelling  psalm  as  it  rose  from 
the  seated  multitude — for  they  stood  to  pray,  but 
sat  to  sing.  From  the  faRt-g/itheiing  mists  that 
now  threaten  those  receding  years,  surviving  ones 
still  rescue  images  of  the  precentor's  rullled  locks, 
swept  by  the  pentecostal  swirl — so  seemed  it  to 
his  worshippers — of  Dr.  Grant's  Geneva  gown.  Auu 
in  this  same  box  Sabbath  after  Sabbath  appeared 
the  stalwart  form  of  Archie  M'Cormack,  modern  it) 
nothing  but  his  years. 

His  was  a  conservatism  of  the  intense  and 
passionate  sort ;  not  the  choice  of  his  judgment, 
but  the  deepest  element  of  his  life.  He  no  more 
chose  old  ways,  o^"*  -^-^'^hp  or  the  spirit  of  eaTJicr 
times,  than  the  trout  cnoi.  -a  wnter  or  the  Polar  bear 
its  native  snowa.  He  was  born  not  among  them, 
but  of  them,  and  remained  till  death  their  incarnate 
descendant.  No  mere  Scotch  kirknian  was  Archie, 
but  a  prehistoric  Calvinist,  a  Presbyterian  by  the 
act  of  God  and  an  elder  from  all  eternity.  Even 
his  youthful  thoughts  and  imaginations  arljustod 
themselves  to  the  scope  of  the  Westminster  Con- 
fession, abhorring  any  horizon  unilluniiued  by  the 
grey  light  which  flowed  in  mathematical  exactitude 
from  a  hypothetical  heart  in  the  Sliorter  Oit^'chism. 

Although,  strangely  enough,  Archie  could  never 
master  the  catechism.  A  random  question  was  his 
doom.  Catechise  him  straight  through,  and  big 
response  was  swift  and  accurate.     No  thrust  availed 


i^f 


»  :•  '. 


■Mi 


laa 


.W  ClmfBSjir's  Of  THE   WEST 


tho  minister  lumself    „a,  J.^      „  ^"'"'"™'    «" 

"» -'-ht,  bL:r  to  :.tr'::  '■"°  ''=  -'■•""^  °' 

h.  wouW  never   reappe       „,  "  T;",  ""-'">•  »" 
''ouU    be    with    Borr,  ft  ''''^  ""^M.  it 

-■"  M3  b.a..  .j:  7„::r  rbiif-  Tr 

Archie  :  nje     "':?'.  """  ="'"^'""^  -^''^ 

^  iu  fuu  p?r;r  Trr:^'"''''""'"-^^^'''^ 

obedience."  endeavour  after   new 

heard  this  blare  of  H,-=.    a     !T  ^'^   P^°^  ^i^e 

ears,  whil       2  ^^"^j^^       'T  ^'''  "^^^^^^^^ 
her  breath  "  Y  v.  ^^  ^"'P''^'  e:.claimmg  above 

eroreath     lere  sair  muudled,  faither." 
Archie  looked  vacintlj  from  wifp  f,.    i       , 
0-   who   has  let   son.e'hi™     d^  ;  '"  l?"""^''  "'- 

-  epiio^e  .a.  .orrj*:  :r:;:drT;r 


A  BOLD  PROPOSAL  ,23 

Presbyterian  smile  wont  round,  more  vocal  than  the 
echoing  laughter  of  less  silent  secta,  and  it  emote  on 
Archie's  ears  like  the  scorners'  bray.  Forward  went 
the  catechism,  a  penitential  gloom  succeeding  the  sin- 
ful indulgence.     The  Scottish  sun  dips  suddenly. 

Sober  enough  now  are  the  faces  from  which  all 
merriment  has  fled,  forgetting  the  precentor's  dis- 
comfiture, and  looking  only  to  their  own  deliverance 
from  the  guns  now  turned  against  themselves.  But 
Archie  did  not  forget— into  a  secret  Scottish  place 
he  had  retreated,  his  hot,  burning  heart  forging  some 
weapon  of  revenge.  It  was  ready  in  d-e  time.  An 
hour  after,  just  before  the  armistice  wl  .h  the  bene- 
diction alone  made  sure,  he  turned  upon  the  honest 
rustics  with  a  look  of  belated  triumph  in  his  face, 
and  slew  them  with  the  retort  which  long  travail  had 
brought  forth. 

"  A'm  no'  sae  gleg  on  the  subject  o'  sin  as  some  fowk 
I  ken." 

The  minister,  by  aid  of  special  grace,  said  nothing. 
Archie,  although  he  held  solemnly  on  his  way  through 
the  benediction,  as  became  a  precentor,  yet  chuckled 
exultantly  all  the  homeward  road.  At  evening 
worship  he  selected  the  27th  Psaim  and  sang  the 
second  verse  with  rejoicing  u action — 


"Whereas  mino  enemies  and  foes, 
Most  wicked  persona  all, 
To  eat  my  flesh  against  me  rcaa. 
They  stmbled  and  did  iA\" 


"4 


I 


•iT  cvrm<^rj:j..s  o^  tue  vest 


wit  other  tfiat  most  Scotch  of  all   <?«„♦*    i 
half  of  eulogy  and  h.if     r  i  "''  '''''^''^^' 

lad  „  A-    .  "'    condemnation:    <«  ifc'e  a 

i'^^.  .3  Airclno.     Ay.  AircInVs  u  lad  U>  bo  .ure" 

cerned' with  .heir  Z      of;;  T"'.  "  ""■   "°°°- 

^".  «r  author  i„  ..,„,,.„  ,;/;;,'^;;" -• '-■" 


A  11(7 ID  rfiorosAL  ,,, 

»'y»m.n.  This  irnpIi.Ml  n  rovolution.  for  St.  CMhW-n'^ 
"P  to  thi«  titnchud  roHolutoIy  resiHtr.l  all  aU„mpt« 
to  fv'll.;w  Buch  profaniLifj. 

For  the  youthful  ,.air  of  rovohitionim,.  I  .'„|t  « 
Jloc-.ded  .y,npathy.  «uch  as  p^rvruh.  ovo,  v  ....orouH 
•eart  when  it  hohohl.  the  .!.u,.th..sH  approuc'h  of  DavM 
ow,.nls  Goh'Hth.  Such  citad.Ia  of  o,tho.l,.xy.  such 
O.bralturs  of  consorvatian.  an  Archio  wa«,  were  ahnost 
all  the  eh  ors  of  St.  Cuthhert's.  An,l  a.aiu.t  them  all 
united  did  Angus  arul  Margaret  dare  to  turn  ^hoir 
poor  artilh-ry  of  porBiiafion. 

'ih«  BcsBiou  received  thorn  cordially,  havir-K  ^H  ^ood- 
wdl  towards  them  perHonally.  hatin-,.  the  mx  .nl  loving 
the  emners,  to  en.ploy  a  good  old  theological  phras. 
An^.;8  began,  adroitly  enough,  with  a  eulogv  of  the 
psa  ms  and  paraphrases,  defining  them  as  the  n.r,untain 
peaks  of  soiig  in  all  ages  and  in  every  ton-.,o 

"In  far-distant  Scotland  my  n.other  .a  singing  them 
to-n,ght.  he  said,  "and  I  catch  the  glow  an.l  the 
sweetness  of  the  heather  when  the  kirk  rings  with 
their  high  refrain  ilka  Sabbath  day.  But  we  h.i 
that  the  hymns,  even  if  they  he  inferior,  will  add 
richness  and  variety   to   the    service   of   our    beloved 

As  for  the  organ,  he  contended  that  it  was  only  a 
means  towards  an  end,  man-made  though  it  was;  for 
these  stern  men  were  rigid  in  their  distinction  bet.  m 
things  made  with  hands  and  things  inspired 

Angus  quoted  Scripture  on  behalf  of  the  nr.an  riea 


f  H 


Ijir    1 

w 

>'?  isJUk 

t 

H«P. 

rlt',-.^",'  I 


i»6        ST.  CUTllIiEKrs  OF  THE    WEST 

recalling  David's  use  of  inBtnimental  nmsic  aud  quot- 
ing  the  92nd  Psalm— 

"Uixni  a  tenntringetl  instrunu-ut 
Aud  on  the  psaltery, 
Cpou  tlju  liarp  with  folonin  m\xn\ 
AuJ  gfavo,  Mweet  niciodj." 

r  then  called  upon  Margaret,  and  my  lieart  misgave 
me  as  I  spoke  her  name,  for  she  was  full  of  pacheLic 
hopefulness,  and  seemed  to  think  that  Angus's  argu- 
ment  had  settled  things  beyond  appeal.     But  I  knew 
better  than  she  what  spray  could    do  with  frowning 
rocks.     The  elders,  too.  smiled  tenderly  upon  her,  for 
they  were  chivalrous  in  their  solemn  way,  and  besides 
she  was  what  you  might  call  the  church's  first-born 
child,  the  story  of  which  X  have  already  told.     But 
theirs  was  a  kind  of  executioners'  smile,  for  they  were 
iron-blooded  men.  who  felt  that  they  had  heard  but 
row  the  trumpeting  of  the  enemy  at  the  gate. 

Margaret  timidly  expressed  the  view  that  she  need 
and  would,  add  nothing  more,  "for."  she  concluded,' 
"  Mr.  Strachan  has  covered  the  ground  completely "' 
This  phrase  "covered  the  ground"  I  do  not  believe 
Hhe  had  ever  used  before,  but  every  true  child  of  the 
manse  and  the  kirk  is  born  its  legitimate  heir.    "The 
previous  question"   is  another   matter,  and    can   be 
acquired  only  through  laborious  years.     It  takes  even 
^  moderator  all  his  time  to  explain  it;  before  most 
Presbyteries  quite  master  it.   death   moves   it— and 
then   they  understand. 


W  BOLD  PROPOSAL  „, 

Poor  Margaret  eeemci  to  think  that  Ahrus  bad 
made  out  a  case  which  no  elder  could  Buccessfully 
aasail.  She  knew  not  that  there  are  Bomo  nuiitctf. 
which  Scotch  elders  consider  it  impious  evon  to  discuss 
holding  in  scorn  the  flaccid  axiom  that  there  are  two 
sides  to  every  question. 

The  youthful  petitioners  withdrew,  and  the  session 
indulged  itseJ  in  a  long  silence,  their  usual  mode  of 
s/-iiifying  that  important  business  was  before  them. 

The  first  to  speak  was  Ronald  Al'Grcgor :  "  \\'e'll 
no'  be  need-V  a  motion,"  he  said,  by  way  of  indicating 
that  there  could  be  no  two  opinions  on  the  mutter  in 
bund. 

"  We'll  hae  to  move  that  the  peteetion  be  rejeckit  " 
aaid  Elder  M'Tavish.  nodding  his  head  to  signify  hi'^ 
a-reement  with  Konald's  main  contention. 

"The  puir  bodies  mean  richt,"  ho  added,  being 
distmguiyhed  for  Christian  charity. 

The  in(;tion  was  as  good  as  agiocd  to,  silent  consent 
appearing  upon  every  face,  when  Michael  Blako 
arose. 

"T  move  iu  amendment,  that  the  young  people's 
rt.'que.st  be  referred  to  a  committee,  with  a  view  to  its 
favourable  consideration." 

"I  second  that."  said  Sandy  (^,rant.  the  session 
clerk,  "not  thereby  committin'  masel'  to  its  spirit, 
but  to  bring  it  afore  the  court  in  regular  order." 

"What  for  div  we  need  anither  motion?"  said 
Thoxr-..  Laidlaw,  evidently  pc-iplexcd.     «'  Tia.es  nune 


ia8 


Sr.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 


0'  U8  gaun  to  gie  in  to  thac  mftn-made  hymci— »n' 
their  kist  o'  whustles  wad  be  fair  redet-k'lus." 

"Let  U8  hear  what  they  have  to  say  in  its  behalf 
iaid  Mr.  IJluke.  "  Evorjr  honest  man  should  bo  open 
to  conWction." 

"We're  a'  ^onest  n.on,"  replied  Thomas,  "an*  we're 
a'  open  to  conviction,  but  I  houp  nane  o'  us  '11  be  weak 
eneuch  to  be  cbuvickib.  Oor  faithera  wadna  hae  been 
couvickit." 

"  Ifll  dae  nae  harm  to  hear  the  argyments,"  said 
Andrew  Jr  .gg,  the  silent  member  of  the  session. 

At  Luis  juncture,  fearing  what  Saunders  M'Tavish 
had  long  ago  called  the  thin  edge  o'  the  wedge,  Archie 
M'Cormack,  the  precentor,  came  forward  in  hot  alarm 
championing  the  hosts  of  orthodoxy. 

"The  session '11  mebbe  listen  to  me.  for  I've  been 
yir  precentor  these  mony  years.     We'll  hae  nae  mair 
othae  havers.     W  aa  w.-.nts  their  hymes  ?     Naebody 
etcep'  a  wheen   o'   gigglin'  birkies.     Gie   them    the 
hymes,  an'    we'll    hear  'Martyrdom'  nae   mair    an' 
•  Coleshill  •  an'  '  Duke  Street '  '11    be    by.     For  what 
did  oor  faithers  dee  if  it  wasua   for   the   psalms  o' 
Dauvit  ?   An'  they  dee'd  to  the  tunes  I've  named  to  ye." 
"  But  Mr.  M'Cormack  will  admit,"  said  Mr.  Blake 
"  that  many  of  God's  people  worship  to  profit  with  the 
hymns.     There  is   the   Episcopal   church  across   th.> 
way.     Last   Sabbath   I  am   told   their  soprano  sang 
'  Lead,  kindly  Light,'  and  it  was  well  received." 

"  Wha  receivit  it  ?  "  thundered  Archie.     "  Tell  me 


i^'L^^-hf 


»n' 


M  BOLD  PROPOSAL  ,,5 

that.  8ir.  Wha  receivit  it  ?  Was  it  Almichtj  God 
or  wa.  it  the  itchin'  lugs  o'  deein'  men.  aye  hearkenin' 
to  thao  skirlin-  birkies  wi'  their  mca-mado  hymes?" 

"  Mr.  M'Cormack  is  severe,"  replied  Michael  Blake 
serenely,  "  but  I  think  he  is  uut.ecessarily  alarmed  • 
we  must  keep  our  service  up  to  Jate.  As  the  session 
knows.  I  have  always  been  in  favour,  for  iustance.  of 
the  modern  fashion  of  special  services  at  Christmas 
Eastertide,  and  kindred  seasons.  And  at  such  times' 
we  ought  to  have  a  little  special  music." 

"Up  to  date!"  retorted  Archie  scornfully  •  "  ifs  a 
sair  date  an'  a  deein'  ane.     It'll  dee  the  nicht.  an' 
here  11  be  a  new  ane  the  morn,  an'  wha  ever  heard 
ell  o    an  Easter  Sabbath  in  the  K.rk  0'  Scotland  ? 
It  11  dae  weel  eneuch  for  thae  dissentin'  bodies    wi' 
their  prayer-books,  but  what  hae  we.  wi'  the  psalm- 
bmk.  an  a  regular  ministry,  an'  a  regular  kirk,  to  dao 
wi   sichke  follies?     Ilka  Sabbath  day  is  Easter  day 
m   tellm    ye.     Is   oor  Lord  no'  aye  visiu'  frae  the 
dead  ?     Gm  a  soul  braks  intU  new  life,  or  a  deein' 
man  pillows  his  weary  heid  on  Him.  or  the  heavy- 
herted  Btaun'  up  in  His  michty  strength,  yo  hae  ,^r 
Kaster  Sabbath ;  an'  that's  ilka   Sabbath,  I'm  sayin' 
iSane ^  o'   yir   enawmelled    bit    toys   fur   Presbyterian 

"  I   do  not  want   to   interfere   with   the  good   old 

^tenan    ways,"   responded    Mr.    Blake ;   for   the 

elders  seemed   to  have  committed   the  entire  d.ha^^ 

to  those  two  representatives  of  the  old  school  and  the 


■30 


ST.  CUTHBERTS  OP  THE    WEST 


new.       But   .t   seems   to   me   the  whole   Christian 
reI.g.on  .  a  religion  of  change,"  he  continued;  -the 
new  path,  the  new  and  Uvin,  .......  ,,,  „,„  ^:^J2 

the  new  name,  the  new  son,  -.nd  tl,e  ..„  heart- 
he  concluded    fervently.     Th  .   a   mom,,  at  later  he 

:  t  m  in  at  ""t  ""  """■''""'  '^^  ^"^  '^'^^ 
at  h,m  „  astonishment,  for  his  face  bore  again  that 

look  of  anguish  and  remorse  to  which  I  have  referred 
before  the  oft-recurring  evidence  of  some  bitL  sZ' 
deep  hidden  in  his  heart. 

_    "We  understaun'  fine,"  the  sessio-  clerk  appended. 
Mr.  Blake  is  only  contending  that  there  are  two  sides 
to  every  question." 

"Twa  sides!"  shouted  the  precentor,  now  on  hi, 
eet  again,  "  there's  mair  nor  tw^     There's  three  sid 

Ilka  question,  there's  yir  ain  side,  an'  there's  my 
.de  an'  there's  God's  side,"  he  added  almost  fierce^ 
an^  when  I  ten  God's  side,  there's  nae   ither  1' 

tt  VH, 

The  debate  was  not  continued  long,  and  closed  with 
the  compromise  that  Mr.  Elakc'a  motion  should 
pr  vaU.  the  whole  matter  to  be  referred  to  a  com- 
mittee composed  of  Mr.  Blake,  the  precentor  the 
mod    at       ,,,   ,,^  ^^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^^^    V  ^^  J.^the 

the  kirk  session  unless  the  committee  was  unani- 
mous m  Its  finding.  This  committee  was  instructed 
to  meet  and  confer  with  the  representatives  of  th. 
jToung  People's  Guild. 

While  this  resolution  was  being  recorded.  Archie 


A  BOLD  PROPOSAL  ,,^ 

was  8tiU  indulging  in  emothered  protests,  the  dyin<- 
voice  of  the  thunderstorm;  and  as  the  session 
dispersed  he  was  he.ird  to  say,  "Committee  or  no 
committee,  as  lang  as  I'm  in  the  kirk  they'll  sing  the 
psalms  o'  Dauvit— an'  the  tunes  o'  Dauvit  tae." 

The  next  evening  I  informed  Angus  of  the  session's 
action,  and  told  him  the  names  of  the  committee 
When  I  mentioned  that  of  Mr.  Blake,  his  eyes  flashed 
fire,  and  in  bitter  tones  he  said,  "  I  will  meet  no 
committee  of  which  that  man  is  one.  I  hate  him,  sir. 
I  would  as  lief  confer  with  the  devil  as  with  him."' 

This  staggered  me.  I  knew  no  cause  for  an  out- 
burst so  passionate,  nor  any  provocation  for  a  resent- 
ment so  savage  and  so  evidently  real.  My  attempt 
to  question  him  concerning  either  met  with  an  abrupt 
but  final  refusal.  Concerning  these  things  I  said 
nothing  to  Margaret  or  her  mother,  but  kept  them 
all  and  pondered  them  in  my  heart. 


ifl 

\ 


-  s 

111 
jfi 


XVI 


ll^    *^ 


OKOBDIE'S    OOT-TURK 

JT  was  Geordie  torrimer  who  first  tau.ht   m,   to 
-L     curl,     Thi3  I  ,uu  ,,,,„„  ^  ^'   »•   to 

I   have  gone  from   strength  to  strength  tiU    l\l 

r;r  '"^  ^-^  <-'  tankard  skiphood      B  sideT 
6eord,e'8   besetting   sin   still  cUngin^   close  TT^ 

rnendship,  with  a  view  to  his  -^  'uerance 
Some    of    the    old    elders  ^ ' 

«volit.   ,or   Sanderson.   "V.tain^^r  IZ 

eldpra  >,ori  ,  spring.     These  aforesaid 


GEORDIES  OOT-TURA-  x,, 

by  the  gentler  name  of  "  toddy."  At  eventide  they 
took  It.  within  the  sacred  precincts  of  their  own 
firesides,  and  immediately  after  family  worship.  Many 
a  time  and  oft  the  very  lips  which  fervently  sang 
the  psalm —  ® 

"Like  Hermon's  dew,  the  dew  that  doth," 

were  the  same  that  sampled  Sandersons  with  solemn 
satisfaction. 

The  session  clerk  once  presented  to  the  court  a 
letter  from  a  worthy  but  wandering  temperance 
orator,  craving  permission  to  give  his  celebrated  "dog 
talk    in  St.  Cuthbert's  on  a  Sabbath  afternoon 

"I  move  that  the  kirk  be  no'  granted."  said  Archie 
MCormack.  "He'll  be  revilin'  the  ways  o'  men  far 
abune  him.  Ma  faither  aye  took  a  drappy  ilka  nicht, 
haudm  his  bonnet  in  his  haun'  the  while.  He  wad 
drink  the  health  o'  Her  Majesty  (« God  bless  her'  he 
aye  said),  and  mebbe  ane  to  the  auld  kirk  in  bonn^'e 
Scotland,  an'  mebbe  ane  to  the  laddies  wha  used  to 
rm  wi'  him  aboot  the  braes,  an'  mebbe  then  he  wad 
hae  jist  ane  mair  to  Her  Majesty,  for  ma  faither  was 
aye  uncommon  loyal  at  the  hinner  end.  But  atween 
him  an'  ma  mither  he  aye  kent  fine  when  to  stop. 

"An'  a'  oor  faithers  tested  afore  they  gaed  to  bed 

an'  they  a'  dee'd  wi'  their  faces  to  the  Ucht ;  an'  I 

wadna  gie  ane  o'  them  for  a  wheen  o'  yir  temperance 

haverers  wi'  their  dog  talks  on  the  Sabbath  day." 

"  I  second    that,"   said    Eonald   M'Gregor.      "  The 


ill 

III 


I 


■34        ST.  CUrHBEK-rs  OF  THE    WEST 
iujudaeei.™  „.e  o"  s,,eorits,  or  o'  „ny  ithor  .oodce,.ty 
"  "°  '°  "o  «'°>»«"Iit.  b„t  the  SabbatI,  he's  eskin'^J 

"""'""    ^-»'"'  "'«  »""»"  carried  unanimously. 

"  Fair  graun',"  replied  the  solemn  Thomas.     "  Ye'll 
never  throw  a  staue  on  hotter  till  ye  draw  bv  v 

'■  I  dinna  ken,"  he  answered,  •■  but  I'm  no'  despairin' 

Geordie  Lonimer  was  my  skin  f>.of  ^ 
th._ed  floor  was  eehoLStt'rti:;^':::" 

»he    homely    CranTtrr;  Tab'"'? 
cobbled  hia    shoe,  the    hanker   and   U^    o    ter   T  ." 

»anu  acturer   and    the    mechanie-al.  oV  t,«  '  „t 
Q-ted  platform  which  is  huiit  alone  o    eu  kl'      " 

Uy  me  a  pat-lid  richt  here,  man.     Soop  her  un 
*wp,  soop,  man.     Get  her  by  the  »aird      I.fl     7 
r.wr^n,herhenthe\o„se^-^,^;-^^ 

WilXn     ye.       JVoO,    soon     cnnr,    Yr.^    •  ..  i-'       "» 

'- ■  ^    -v  ^'-^  in,  man.  ■ 


GEORDIE'S  OOT-TURN  135 

"Noo,  minister,  be  up  tliis  time,"  cries  Geonlie. 
'^Soop,  8oop  her  up.  That's  a  graun'  yin,  minister. 
Shake  ye  yir  ain  haun'.  Gin  yir  sermoua  were 
Jeleevered  like  yir  stanea,  there  wadna  be  an  empty 
seat  i'  the  kirk.  Lat  her  dee,  she's  owor  fiery. 
That'll  dao  fine  for  a  gaird,  an'  Tam'il  be  fashed  to 
get  roun'  ye." 

Thus  roared  the  game  aloncj,  and  at  its  close 
Geordie  and  I  were  putting  our  stones  away  together, 
flushed  with  victory.  The  occasion  seemed  favour- 
able for  the  moral  influence  which  it  was  my  constant 
aim  to  exercise. 

"  By  the  way,  Geordie,"  I  began,  "  I  have  not  see- 
yc  .  in  the  kirk  of  late." 

"What's  that?"  said  Geordie,  his  invariable 
challenge,  securing  time  tc  adjust  himself  for  the 
encounter. 

"I  have  missed  you  nearly  all  winter  from  the 
church  on  the  Sabbath  day."  I  replied,  leaving  no 
room  for  further  uncertainty. 

Ceordie  capitulated  slowly  :  "I'll  grant  ye  I've  no' 
been  by-ord'nar  regghir,"  he  admitted,  "  but  I  hae  a 
guid  excuse.  I  haeua  been  ower  wcel.  Ma  knee's 
been  sair.  -^o  tell  ye  the  truth,  minister,  half  the 
time  'twas  a'  I  could  dae  to  get  doon  to  curl." 

I  sighed  heavily  and  said  no  more,  for  Geordie  was 
hopelessly  sincere  in  his  idea  of  first  tilings  first. 

The  very  next  night  I  was  sitting  quietly  in  my 
study,  talking  to  Margaret  and   .\ngus.  though  I  was 


'•  \\ 


I    ■* 


inl 


136        ST.  CUTIIBEUrs  OF  THE   WEST 

beginning  to  auspect  already  that  they  had  come  to 
endure  my  absence  with  heroic  fortitude. 

About  eleven  o'clock  the  door  bell  rang,  ana  I 
answered  it  myself  It  was  Geordie'a  distracted  wife 
Leading  her  to  the  drawing-r.om.  I  asked  her  mission" 
though  her  palu  and  care-wrung  face  left  little  room  for 
doubt. 

"Wad  ye  think  it  bold  o'  me.  sir.  gin  1  was  to 
ask  you  to  find  Geordie  an'  fetch  him  hame  ?  He's 
off  sin'  yestere'en." 

"Why.  it  was  only  yesterday  evening  I  saw  him 
on  the  ice. 

"Ay,  sir.  but  he  winned  the  game,  an'  that's  aye 
a  loss  for  Geordie;  he  aye  tok's  himsel'  to  the  tavern 
when  he  wins.  Oh.  sir.  ma  hairfs  fair  broken  •  it's 
a  tvvalmonth  this  verra  nicht  sin'  oor  wee  Jessie 
deed,  an  I  was  aye  lippenin'  to  that  to  bring  him  till 
himselj  but  he  seems  waur  than  ever-he  seeks  to 
droon  his  sorrow  wi'  the  drink." 

I  had  often  marvelled  at  this ;  for  Geordie'a  la«t 
word  to  his  little  daughter  had  been  a  promise  to 
meet  her  in  the  land  o'  the  leal.  But  it  is  not  chains 
alone  that  make  a  slave. 

After  a  little  further  conversation,  I  sent  the  poor 
woman  home,  assuring  her  that  1  would  do  the  beet 
I  could  for  Geordie.  Which  promise  I  proceeded  to 
fulfil.  Two  or  three  of  his  well-known  resorts  had 
been  visited  witli  fruitless  quest,  when  I  repaired  to 
the  Maple  Leaf,  a   notoriously  sunkuu    hole,    which 


GEORDIE'S  OOT-TURN  ,37 

thu3  blasphemed  the  name  of  the  fairest  emblem 
of  the  nations.  I  observed  a  few  sorry  wastrels 
leaning  in  maudlin  helplessness  upon  the  bar  as 
I  rressed  in,  still  cleaving  to  their  trough —  but 
Geordie  was  not  among  them.  I  was  about  to  with- 
draw, when  I  heard  a  familiar  voice,  above  the 
noise  of  a  phonograph,  from  one  of  the  rooms  just 
above  the  bar.     It  was  Geordie's. 

"  Gi^  us  '  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee.' "  I  heard  him 
cry,  with  drunken  unction.  "Gin  ye  haena  ane 
0  the  psalms  o'  Dauvit  i'  yir  kist  o'  tunes,  mak'  the 
creetur  play    Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee.'  " 

Here  was  Geordie's  evil  genius  in  evidence  again 
hia  profligacy  and  his  piety  hand  in  hand.  Ascending 
the  stairs,  I  reached  the  door  just  in  time  to  see  the 
landlord,  manipulator  of  the  musical  machine,  forcing 
Geordie  to  the  door,  one  hand  gripping  his  throat,  the 
other  buffeting  the  helpless  wretch  in  the  face.  Two 
or  three  of  his  unspeakable  kindred  were  applauding 

"  Get  out  of  here,  you  beast,"  he  muttered  savagely. 
"and  let  decent  folk  enjoy  themselves.  You'll  not 
get  no  music  nor  no  whisky  either,  hangin'  round  an 
honest  man's  house  without  a  penny  in  your  pocket- 
get  out,  you  brute."  And  he  struck  him  full  in  the 
face  again. 

It  wer.3  wrong  to  say  that  I  forgot  I  was  a 
minister;  I  think  I  recalled  that  very  thing,  and  it 
gave  more  power  to  my  arm.  for  I  knew  the  poverty 


!•! 


I 

I 


' 


n 


'f 


!jS        ST.  CUTH BERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

amid  which  Geordie'a  poor  wife  btrove  to  keep  their 
home  together;  and  the  pitiful  hareness  of  wee 
Jessie's  death-chamber  flashed  before  me.  This  well- 
nourished  vampire  had  sucked  the  life-blood  from 
them  all,  and  remembering  this,  I  rushed  into  the 
unequal  conflict  and  smote  the  vompire  between  his 
greedy  eyes  with  such  fervour  that  he  fell  where  he 
stood.  In  a  moment  he  was  on  his  feet  again,  but 
my  ministry  with  him  was  not  complete,  and  I  seized 
him  where  he  had  gripped  his  own  victim,  by  the 
throat. 

"Let  me  be.     Remember  you're   a  minister,"   he 
gasped. 

"  God  forbid  I  should  forget,"  I  thundered  back,  for 
my  blood  was  hot.  I  remembered  just  then  that  wee 
Jessie  had  been  dependent  on  charity  for  the  little 
delicacies  that  go  with  death.  "  And  if  God  helps  me 
you  won't  forget  it  either,"  with  which  addition  I 
hurled  him  down  the  stairs,  his  final  arrival  eignalled 
back  by  the  sulphurous  aroma  of  bruised  and  battered 
maledictions. 

It  may  be  incidentally  inserted  here  that  this 
unclerical  encounter  of  mine  was  afterwards  referred 
to  at  a  meeting  of  St.  Cuthbert's  session.  One  of  the 
elders,  never  very  friendly  to  me,  preferred  the  charge 
of  conduct  unbecoming  a  minister.  Only  two  of  hie 
colleagues  noticed  the  indictment,  and  they  both  were 
elders  of  the  old  Scotch  school. 

"Oor    nimister's    fine    at   the   castin'   doon   o'   the 


GEORDIE'S  OOT-TURN  ,3^ 

nrontjholdfl  o'  Satan,"  said  the  one;   "it  min.J.  rno  o' 
what  the  beasts  got  i'  the  temple." 

"  It's  mebbe  no'  Solomon's  exact  words,  but  it's  a^y 
bice  thorn:  'A  time  to  pit  on  the  ,oon  an'  a  ti;.e 
to  tak  uff  the  coat'-.n'  it's  the  yao  km'  0'  pro- 
heeb^etjon  that's  ony  ;.uid  forbye,"  said  the  other 

The  groaning  landlord  was  soon  removed  by  the 
lovmg  hand,  of  Ms  wife  and  the  hostler;  and  as  I 
convoyed  Geordie  ont  past  their  family  sitting-room 
enderly  so  called,  the  phonograph  breathed  out  the 
last  expiring  strains  of  "Wull  ye  no'  come  back 
again?  which  the  afo.-..aid  landlord  had  selected  in 
preference  to  Geordie's  pious  choice. 

Measures  for  the  sulferer's  relief  had  been  swift  •  the 
air  was  already  rich  with  the  fumes  of  high  wines 
tl).  versatile  healer  of  internal  griefs  and  external' 
wounds  alike. 

When  Geordie  and  I  were  well  upon  the  street  a 
nfw  difficulty  presented  itself. 

"  It's  a  sair  shock,  an'  it'll  kill  the  wife,"  I  heard 
mm  muttering  beneath  his  breath. 

This  gave  me  some  little  hope,  for  I  detected  in  it 
the  beauty  of  penitence. 

_    "  Your  wife  will  forgive  you,  Geordie."  I  began  ;  "  and 
if  this  will  only  teach  " 

But  he  stopped  me ;  his  face  showed  that  he  had 
been  sorely  misunderstood. 

^    «  Forgie  me-forgie  me  !    It's  no'  me  she'll  hae  tae 
-orgie.     Are  ye  no'  the  minister  o'  St.  Cuthbert's  ? 


i      i 


li 


l^j 


11 


i\ 


140        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

Ah,  yo  c^nna  deny  that,  I  ken  that  fine.  I  kent 
ye  as  sune  as  ye  cum'  slippiu'  ben  the  taivorn.  It'll 
fair  kill  the  wife." 

"  Whut  are  you  talking  about  ? "  I  aaid  tci'tily. 

"To  think  I  wad  live  to  aee  my  ain  minietor 
Blippin'  by  intil  a  taivern  at  sic  a  time  o'  nicht."  he 
groaned  despondingly. 

Then  he  turned  upon  me,  his  voice  full  of  sad 
reproof:  "I'm  no'  what  I  micht  bo  masel',  but  I 
dinna  mak'  ony  profession;  but  to  think  I'd  catch 
my  ain  minister  hangin'  roon'  a  taivern  at  this  time 
o'  nicht  It'll  kill  the  wife.  She  thocht  the  warld 
o"  ye." 

What  the  man  was  driviiig  at  was  slowly  borne  in 
upon  me. 

"But  you  do  not  understand,  G«;ordie,"  I  began. 

He  stopped  me  agair  :  "  Dinna  mak'  it  waur  wi* 
yir  explanations.  I  un'erstaun'  fine.  I  un'erstaun' 
noo  why  th  ,  ,a'  ye  a  feenished  preacher — yir  damn 
weel  feenished  for  me  an'  Betsy.  An'  gin  I  tell  hoo  I 
fun'  ye  oot  (which  I'm  no'  sayin'  I'll  dae),  ilka  sate 
i'  the  kirk  will  be  empty  the  comin'  Sabbath  day. 
Ye're  a  wolf  in  sheep's  claes,  an'  I'm  sair  at  hairt  the 
nicht." 

I  saw  the  uselessness  of  any  attempt  to  enlighten 
him,  for  he  was  evidently  sincere  in  his  illusion,  and 
the  spirit  of  real  grief  could  be  detected,  mingling 
with  another  which  poisoned  the  air  at  every  breath. 
Whereupon  I  left  him  to  himself  as  we  walked  along, 


GEORDIE'r.  OOr-TURN  ,4, 

Geordie  swaying  gently,  overcome  by  the  experiences 
of  the  departed  hour. 

"  It  mauti  hae  a  fearfu'  baud  o'  ye  when  ye  cam' 
oot  ac  Bic  a  time,"  he  ouid  at  length,  half  to  himeelf. 
"  But  it  clean  spiled  a  graun'  nicht  for  me  to  see  ye 
Blippin'  ben.     It  was  a  graun'  nicht  up  till  that.     I 

canna  jist  mind  if  it  was  a  funeral  or  a  weddiu' 

but  it  was  fair  graun'.  We  drinkit  the  health  o'  ane 
anither  till  there  wasna  ache  or  pain  amangst  us.  but 
this  spiles  it  a'  for  me.     An'  it'll  kill  the  wife." 

"  You  will  see  it  differently,"  I  could  not  help  but 
say ;  "  you  know  well  how  I  have  tried  to  help  you 
and  tned  to  comfort  your  poor  wife." 

"  That's  what  I  aye  thoclit  till  noo,"  he  responded 
plaintively.  "  I  was  sayin'  that  same  thing  this  verra 
nicht  to  ane  o'  mv  freens  at  the  taivern  aforo  ye  cam'. 
It  was  lid  Tarn  Kutherford,  wha's  gaun  co  be 
mairrit  again,  and  him  mair  nor  au^hty  years  0'  age. 
I  wamt  him  against  it,  an*  I  telt  him  his  ither 
wiunman  was  deid  but  sax  mouths.  But  Tarn  said 
as  hoo  a  buddy  at  his  age  canna  afford  *t  wait  ower 
lang,  an'  I  didna  ken  what  answer  to  gie  to  that." 
Then  Geordie  stopped,  evidently  resuming  the 
quest  for  an  appropriate  reply;  for  Scotch  wit  ie 
usually  posthumous,  their  responses  serial  and  their 
arguments  continued  in  their  next. 

I  was  naturally  curious  as  to  what  part  I  could 
have  had  in  this  discussion,  and  since  Geordie  seemed 
to     have     forgotten     the    origiiiul    subject,    I    aaked, 


HI 


t4>        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  Oh   THE   WEST 

"  VVhat  haa  that  to  do  with  my  trying  to   help  or 
comfort  anybody  ? "  o  »»  ur 

"Ou  ay."  ho  resumed.  "  Tam  waa  aayin'  a.  hoo 
hed  no  hae  y^rsel'  to  mairry  them,  for  he  aaid  ye're 
ower  affectionate  wi'  the  bridea.  But  I  stuck  up  for 
you.  I  telt  him  yir  sympathiea  was  braid,  but  re 
dulua  pick  oot  the  lassies  for  it  a'.  I  was  at  Wuliie 
Lees  the  nicht  Wuliie  dee'd ;  an'  I  waa  fair  scunnert 
at  the  elders.  There  was  twa  o'  them,  an'  ther 
prayed  turn  aboot. 

"When  Wuliie  slippit  awa'  at  midnight  his  twa 
dochtera.  Kirsty  an'  Ann.  took  on  redeek'lus.  an'  the 
aula  wumman  was  waur.     But  the    twa    eldera   sat 
an  hour,  comfortin-  the  twa  lassies,  ane  to  ilka  ane.  an' 
baith  0  them  no'  bad  to  luik  at.     They  comfortit  them 
muckle  the  same  as  I  comfortit  Betsy  when  we  did 
oor  coortin'.  but   the  puir  auld  buddy  was  left   her 
lane  wi  naebody  to  comfort  her  ava.      I  did  it  masel' 
a  wee  while.     That's  what  I  telt  Tam.  an'  I  pinted 
oot  the  difference  atween  you  an'  the  elders.     I  said 
as  hoo  ye  wad  hae  pickit  oot  the  auld  buddy  first- 
But  to   think  ma  ain  een  saw  ye  comin'  ben    the 
taivern  ayont  twal'  o'clock  at  nicht." 

With  such  varied  discourse  did  Geordie  beguile  our 
homeward  way.  which  at  last  brought  us  to  his  dweU- 
mg-place. 

"I  want  ye  to  promise  me  ae  thing  afore  we  pairt" 
said  Geordie.     "  Ifs  for  yir  ain  guid  I'm  askin'  it." 
"What  is  it?"  I  asked  curiously. 


GEORDIE*S  OOTTURN 


or 


M3 


"  I  want  70  to  sign  the  pledge,"  he  re8jx)nflcd,  with 
a  tearful  voice.  "  for  it  maun  hae  a  sair  hand  o'  ye  or 
ye  wadna  be  prowlin'  aboot  a  taivern  at  eic  a  time  0' 
nicht " 

•'  1  will  talk  to  you  eon^e  other  time  about  that." 
"  Weel,  weel,  jist  as  ye  wall— it'll  dac  agnin— but, 
man,  hoo'll  ye  square  it  wi'  the  wife  when  ye  gang 
hame  to  the  manse  the  nicht  ?  We'll  b.iith  hae  oor 
ain  times,  I'm  dootin'.  Here's  a  sweetie  for  ye ;  it's 
a  peppermint  lozenge,  an'  it's  a  gruun'  help.  (Juid- 
nicht." 

1  had  taken  but  forty  steps  or  so  when  a  BolicitouB 
voice  called  out,  "  Lie  wi'  yir  back  to  the  wiie— an'  sip 
the  sweetie — an'  breathe  in  to  yirsel'." 


^*^^ 


XVII 


"NOO,   THK   IN-TURN" 

mHE  Apostles'  Creed  should  be  revised.     One  great 
■^      article  of  faith  it  lacks.     "  I  believe  in  the  com- 
munion  of  saints,  the  forgiveness  of  sins,  the  resurrec 
tion  0    the  body,  and  the  life  everlasting  "-thus  peal 
ite  bells  of  gold.     But  where   is    the   faithful  Vnd 
observant  minister  who  would  not  add.  « I    believe 
m   the    change   of   the  leopard's   spots  and  of   the 
Ethiopian  s  skin  "  ?     Nowadays,  we  speak  of  conremon 
with  pity  and  amusement,  but  it  is  the  greatest  word 
the  Christian   Church  can  boast,  and   the  Scripture 
miracles  were  long  ago  entombed  had  they  not  lived 
again  in  their  legitimate  descendants. 

We  are  prone  to  think  that  men  believe  in  modern 
miracles  because  of  those  of  long  ago-but  the  reverse 
13  true:  the  modern  miracles  are  the  attestation  of 
those  early  wonders ;  and  I  myself  believe  the  Galilean 
records  because  of  His  credentials  in  this  Western 
World  and  m  this  present  day. 

The  very  morning  after  the  eventful  night  described 
above.  I  was  busy  at  my  desk,  travailing  in  birth  with 


''NOO,  THE  IN-TURN"  ,45 

ny  germon  for  the  next  Sabbath  morning.  Strangely 
mough,  it  waa  from  the  words,  '*  Why  should  it  be 
tiought  a  thing  incredible?"  which  is  at  heart  no 
iiterrogative  at  all,  but  the  eternal  affirmative  of  all 
religion,  the  basis  of  all  faith,  the  inevitable  corollary 
of  God,  ^ 

I  was  casting  about  for  a  fitting  Ulustration,  fumbling 
m  imagery's  twilight  chamber  and  ransacking  the  haUs 
of  history,  when  lo  I  God  sent  one  knocking  at  the 
door.  I  responded  to  the  knock  myself,  and  Geordie 
Lorrimer  stood  before  me.  His  face  seemed  strangely 
chastened,  and  the  voice  which  craved  a  private  inter- 
view  filled  me  somehow  with  subtle  hope  and  joy. 
For  the  voice  is  the  soul's  great  index;  and  this  of 
Geordie's  spoke  of  a  soul's  secret  convalescence.  The 
breath  of  spring  exuded  from  his  worda 

I  locked  my  study  door  as  we  passed  in  together- 
for  a  Protestant  confessional  is  a  holy  place,  excelUng 
far  the  Catholic,  even  as  a  love-letter  excels  a  bill  of 
lading. 

"What  is  it,  Geordie?"  I  asked,  with  tender 
eagerness. 

"  I  dinna  ken  exactly,  but  I  think  it's  life,"  he 
answered  with  new-bom  passion,  "an'  eternal  life  at 
that.  I  canna  tell  it,  an'  I  canna  thole  it  till  I  do  tell 
it.  I  maunna  mak'  ower  free  wi*  Gort ;  but  it's  my 
soul,  minister,  it's  my  soul,  an'  I'm  a  new  creature. 
I'm  new  in  the  sicht  0'  God  an'  He's  new  in  mine— an' 
I  prayed  this  momin',  a  thing  I  haena  dune  for  mair 


If 


fiJ 


•wm 


m 


i: 


146        ST.  CUTHBERrs  OF  THE   WEST 

than  twenty  years— an'  the  auld  burn  was  aweet  ai' 
clear,  like  when  my  laddie's  lips  sippit  there  lang  eyre 
—I  dauma  speak  His  name  ower  often,  but  God  a 
gey  guid  to  the  sinfu'  an'  the  weary." 

"None   but  they  can  know  how  good,"  was      / 
response. 

My  remark  seemed  to  pass  unnoticed,  for  Geora 
had  more  to  say. 

"Hark  ye,  an'  I'll  tell  ye  hoo  God  cam'  to  me. 
Twas  near  the  dawn  this  verra  mornin'I  had  a  dream 
an'  wee  Jessie  cam'  to  me.     An'  that  was  God.  nae' 
ither  ane  but  God.     'Got  o'  the  mooth  o'  babes.'  is 
that  no  i  the  Buik  ?     For  wee  Jessie  stood  beside  the 
bed,  an'  I  luikit  at  her  an'  I  said.  '  My  little  dochter ' 
Twas  a'  I  could  say.  an'  she  pit  her  saft  haun'  on 
my  held  sae  gentle,  an'  eae  blessed  cool,  for  my  heid 
was  burnin'  hot.     She  luikit  lang.  an'  her  een  was  fu' 
o*  love:  'Faither,'  she  said.  '  did  ye  no'  promise  yir 
lassie  to  meet  her  in  the  Faither's  hoose  ?     Oh,  faither 
I've  come  to  mind  ye  0'  yir  promise  an'  to  set  yir  puir' 
feet  upon  the  path  ance  mair.     God  loves  ye,  faither  • 
I  hae  it  frae  Himsel' ;  an'  there's  mony  a  ane  wi'  Him' 
noo  in  white  wha  wandered  farther  bye  nor  you.     An' 
God  '11  try,  gin  ye'll  try  yirsel',  an'  yir  wee  Jessie  '11  no' 
be  far  frao  ye.     Wull  ye  no'  come,  faither  ?  for  yir  ain 
lassie,  an'  mither,  an*  God,  a'  want  ye.' 

"I  luikit  lang  intil  her  angel  face,  but  I  was  feart 
to  speak,  for  I  wasna  worthy.  The  road  was  brichfc 
eneuch,  but  I  waeua  fit  to  gang. 


"NOO,  THE  IN'TURxV" 


U7 


"  I  ken  what  yir  thinkin'  o',  faither.  I  ken  yir 
•mmy — an'  God  kens.  It's  the  drink.  But  it'll  pasa 
yii  lipd  nae  mair.  I'll  kiss  them,  faither,  an'  they'll 
burn  wi'  the  awfu'  thirst  nae  mair.' 

"An'  she  stoopit  doon  an'  kissed  my  bumin'  lips ;  an' 
I  waukit  up,  an'  the  fever  was  a'  past  an'  by.  I  telt 
Betsy,  ^  .  she  grat  wi'  joy.     '  It's  i'  the  Buik,'  she  said. 

"  '  What's  i'  the  Buik  ? '  I  sp-  irt. 

"  •  A  Uttle  child  shall  lead  them,'  Betsy  said." 

I  talked  a  little  while  with  Geordie  as  one  talks 
with  a  shipwrecked  sailor  who  has  gained  the  shore. 
He  asked  me  to  pray. 

"  Mak'  it  easy,"  he  said,  "  I'm  no'  far  ben  the 
Mystery  yet.  I'm  but  a  bairn ;  but  my  lips  are  pure, 
an'  the  fever's  by." 

We  knelt  together,  and  I  prayed  •  "  O  Friend  of 
sinners,  help  us  both,  for  we  are  both  sinners.  Keep 
us,  blessed  Lord,  and  let  his  little  daughter  be  near 
us  both  to  help  us  on  the  way.  We  will  both  try  our 
best,  and  Thou  wilt  too.     Amen." 

My  half-written  sermon  never  has  been  finished. 
I  was  constrained  to  take  another  text,  and  the  next 
Sabbath  morn  I  saw  Betsy  Lorrimer  bow  her  head  in 
reverent  adoration  when  I  gave  it  out — 

"  Are  they  not  all  ministering  spirits,  sent  forth  to 
minister  ? " 


;■    ■: 


I  I 


a  \n 


xvm 


i    'S 


HOW   KLSIE   WON   THE   GATE 

mHE  forest's  glory  is  departed  when  its  giant 
trees  lie  low.  And.  stroke  by  stroke,  my  St 
Cuthbert's  Kirk  was  thus  bereft  of  its  outetanding 
glones.  For  great  men  are  like  great  trees,  the 
shelter  of  all  others  and  the  path-finders  towards  the 
sky. 

My  sun  is  westering  now.  and  the   oft-repeated 
crash  as  these  mighty  stalwarts  fall  keeps  my  heart 
in  almost  abiding  sadness.     For  the  second  growth 
gives  no  promise  of  a  stock  which  shall  be  worthy 
successors    to   these   noble  pioneers,  the   conquering 
gladiators  of  Canada's  shadowy  forests,  the  real  makers 
01  her  great  and  portentous  national  life.     And  yet 
s^ange  to  say.   I   never  knew  their  real  greatness' 
while    I   lived   among  them,  sharing  in    the  varied 
chase,  but  only  when  they  came  to  die 

ThM  was  especially  true  of  those  who  boasted  far- 
back  highland  blood,  for  their  depths  of  tenderness 
and  heights  of  faith  and  scope  of  spiritual  vision 
were    sternly  hidden  till    the  helplessness  of   death 

148 


Iff 


IfOlV  ELSIE    WON  THE  GATE  149 

betrayed  them.  Then  was  the  key  to  thoir  secret 
life  surrendered;  then  might  all  men  see  the  face 
at  the  pane.  But  not  till  then ;  for  every  stolid 
feature,  every  stifled  word  or  glance  of  tenderness, 
every  muffled  note  of  religious  self-revealment, 
■welled  their  life's  noble  perjury.  To  their  own  hurt 
they  swore,  changing  not.  But  at  their  real  best  he 
saw  them  who  saw  them  die. 

In  that  ingenuous  hour  they  spoke  once  more  their 
mother  tongue  of  love  and  faith  with  an  accuracy 
which  told  of  lifelong  rehearsal  within  their  secret 
hearts.  When  the  golden  bowl  was  broken,  its  holy 
contents,  flowing  free,  poured  forth  the  long-imprisoned 
fragrance. 

How  many  a  day,  cold  and  grey,  flowers  at  sunset 
into  rich  redemptive  beauty,  cheerless  avenue  leading 
to  its  grand  Cathedral  West!  Thus  have  I  seen 
these  Scottish  lives,  stern  and  cold  and  rayless,  break 
into  flame  at  evening,  in  whose  light  I  caught  the 
glory  of  the  very  gates  of  the  City  of  God. 

It  was  the  winter  of  the  strike,  whose  story  I  have 
abeady  told,  that  Elsie  M'Phatter  heard  the  Voice 
which  calls  but  once.  Long  and  gentle  had  been  the 
slope  towards  the  river,  and  I  held  Elsie's  hand  every 
step  of  the  way,  myself  striving  to  hold  that  other 
Hand  which  is  truly  visible  only  in  the  darkness ;  but 
the  last  stage  of  the  journey  came  swift  and  suddenly. 
About  two  in  the  morning  I  was  awakened  by  the 
loud  alarm  of  mv  door-bell. 


■  \ 

\ 

! 

r 

11 


ISO        ST.  CUTUBERTS  OF  THE    WEST 


11 


/,   !i 


The  minister  knows  well  that  at  such  an  hour  his 
bell  is  rung  only  by  eternal  winds,  and  the  alarm  is 
an  almost  certain  message  that  the  rapids  are  near 
and  that  lie  is  wanted  at  the  helm.  On  Atlantic 
liners  I  have  never  heard  the  ominous  note  that  calls 
the  captain  from  his  cabin  to  the  bridge  without 
thinking  of  my  midnight  beU,  and  that  deeper 
darkness,  and  that  more  awful  channel 

It  was  the  doctor's  boy  who  thus  summoned  me, 
bidding  me  hurry  to  Elsie's  bedside,  for  the  tide  was 
ebbing  fast,  he  »id,  I  was  soon  on  my  way  through 
the  frosty  night,  silently  imploring  the  unseen 
Pilot  that  He  would  safe  into  the  haven  guide.  To 
His  gieat  wisdom  and  His  sheltering  love  I  committed 
all  the  case,  making  oath  beneath  the  silent  stars  that 
I  had  myself  no  other  hope  than  this  with  which  I 
hurried  to  yonder  dying  one.  For  a  man's  own 
heart  must  swear  by  the  living  Lord,  or  else  he  will 
find  no  path  through  the  dread  wilderness  of  death 
for  the  unreturning  feet 

When  the  outskirts  of  the  town  were  but  well 
behind  me,  I  saw  in  the  distance  a  scMtary  light 
which  I  knew  at  once  to  be  the  death-chamber  lamp ; 
at  sight  whereof  my  heart  has  never  outgrown  a 
strange  leap  of  trembling  fear,  like  a  scout  when 
he  catches  the  first  warning  gleam  of  the  enemy's 
camp  fire.  Yonder,  I  said  to  myself,  is  the  battle- 
field of  a  soul,  struggUng  with  its  last  great  foe; 
yonder  the  central  crisis  of  all  time  and  all  eternity ; 


V.J>- -•*}.  fl^.    ■tF.v  JUk. 


Pm^f^ 


HO IV  ELSIE   WON  THE  GATE 


»5i 


yonder  the  heaving  breast,  the  eager,  onward  look, 
the  unravelling  of  mystery,  the  launching  of  a  soul 
upon  eternal  seas. 

No  life  is  ever  commonplace  when  that  lamp  bums 
beside  it,  and  no  wealth,  or  genius,  or  greatness  can 
palliate  its  relentless  gleam.  There,  continued  I, 
stands  the  dread  unseen  Antagonist,  asking  no  chair, 
demanding  no  courtesy,  craving  no  welcome,  resenting 
no  frowning  and  averted  face ;  calmly  does  he  brook 
the  terror  and  the  hatred  excited  by  his  uninvited 
advent,  serene  in  the  confidence  that  his  is  the  central 
figure,  that  the  last  word  is  his,  though  all  pretend  to 
ignore  his  presence.  Like  a  sullen  crpditor  )\i  stands, 
careless  that  every  man's  hand  is  agRinst  him,  relent- 
lessly following  his  prey,  willing  that  aU  others  should 
wait  his  time  and  theirs,  intent  only  that  this  night 
shall  have  its  own. 

And  yet,  I  thought,  what  a  false  picture  is  this  that 
my  coward  heart  hath  drawn !  Therr  is  Another  in 
that  room,  I  cried  half  aloud,  Another  tLere  before 
me,  whose  swift  feet  have  outrun  my  poor  trudging 
through  the  snow.  For  He  is  there  who  lit  thut 
feeble  lamp  itself,  and  it  burns  only  by  Eis  will. 
Death-lamp  though  it  be,  it  is  still  a  broken  light  of 
Him,  witness,  in  its  own  dark  way,  to  the  All- 
kindling  Hand.  Tlie  Lover  of  the  soul  is  yonder, 
and  will  share  His  dear-bought  victory  with  my  poor 
dying  one. 

Wbereat  I  preeaed  on  eagi-rly,  for  I  love  to  witness 


*  'I 


M 


i 


m 


A 


^ 


iili 


ii: 


I  i 


'St       ST.  CUTHBERrs  OP  THE   WEST 

•  reprieve,  .uch  aa  many  a  time  it  hath  been  mine 
to  see  when  the  Greater  Antagonist  prevails. 

^e  death-damp  was  on  Elsie's  brow  when  I  knelt 
b^8,de  her  bed.  but  her  eyes  were  kindled  fn,m  afar 
and  a  great  Presence  filled  the  room.  Donald  was 
bowed  beside  her.  his  wife's  wasted  hand  w" 
passionately  in  his  own.  ^ 

he  flwelhng  anthem  which  no  lips  can  sing  arighTtiU 
the  great  Vision  quickens  them:  "These  are  th  y 
which  came  out  of  great  tribulation,  and  have  washed 
the^r^robes  and  made  them  white  in  the  blood  of  the 

Elsie's  voice  blended  with  the  great  words,  and  turn- 
ing her  lustrous  eyes  full  on  my  face,  she  murmured- 
Its  a  bncht  and  blythesome  whaur  I'm  walkin' 
noo-there's  no  valley  here  nor  nae  glen  ava.  but  the 
way  IS  fu'  0'  licht  and  beauty." 

Her  eyes  sought  her  husband's  face:  "Oh.  Donal'l 
To  think  we  canna  walk  this  way  thegitherl     We've 
clomb  the  hill  thegither.  Donal'.  mony"!  time  sair  a" 
weary  but  oor  hairts  were  stoot  when  the  brae  was 
stae;  but  noo  I've  reached  the  bonnie  bit  ayont  the 
brae  an   ye're  a'  'at's  wantin'.  Donal',  to  mak'  it  fair 
beautiful,     But  ye'll  no' be  lang  ahint  me.  wull  ye. 
Donal  ?->an'  the  Maister'll  come  back  to  guide  ye 
gm  Im  gone  bye  the  gate.     An'  we'll  aye  walk  the- 
gither  m  the  yonner-land." 

Donald's  face  was  dry,  but  drawn  iu  its  agony.     Its 


JJOW  ELSIE   WON  THE  GATE         ,53 

ache  paeaed  on  into  my  eoul.     He  bent  over  her  like 
some  bowing  oak,  and  the  rustle  of  love's  foliage  waa 
fairly  audible    to  the   inward    ear,   though    the  oak 
Itself  seemed  hard  and  gnarled  as  ever.     Ho  whispered 
something  (like  a  mighty  organ  lilting  low  and  sweet 
Bomo  mother's  lullaby),  and   no    tutor  except   Great 
Death  could  have  taught  Donald  that  gentle  language 
For  I   caught   the  word   "durlii.g."  and    again  "oor 
Saviour."  and  once  "  the  hameland."  and  it  was  like  a 
lark's  gentlest  note  issuing  from  a  mighty  mountain's 
cleft. 

0  Death,  how  unjustly  thou  hast  been  maligned  ' 
Men  have  painted  thee  as  cruel,  monetrous,  hateful 
the  enemy  of  love,  the  despoiler  of  the  home,  the* 
spirit  of  harshness,  the  destroyer  cI  all  poesy  and 
romance.     And  yet  thou  hast  done  more  to  fill  life 
with  softness  and  with  gentle   beauty   than  all   the 
powers  of  life  and  light  whose  antagonist  thou  hast 
been  called.     Thou  hast  heaped  coals  of  fire  on  thy 
traducers'    heads.     For    hast    thou    not    made    the 
heaviest  foot  faU  lightly  with  love's  considerate  tread  ? 
Hast  thou  not  made  the  rough,  coarse  palm  into  a 
sanctuary  and  pavilion  wherein  the  dying  hand,  may 
shelter  ?  Hast  thou  not  taught  the  loud  and  boisterous 
voice  the  new  song  of  tenderness  and  pity,  whispering 
like  a  dove  ?     Within  thy  school  the  rude  and  harsh 
have  learned  the  nurse's  gentle  :.vi.  .nd  the  world's 
swaggering    warriors    serve    as    ^colytis    before   thy 
shadowy  altar.     The  peasant'e   coUage  owes  to  thee 


ifc 


wmm 


mmm 


^ 


^ 


r 

I 

I 


hi 

i 


IS4        ST.  CUTHBEST'S  OF  THE    WEST 

xte  transformation  to  cathedral  aplerdour,  the  censers 
Pfently  ewinging  when   thou  sayeat   the  soul's  great 
mass,  at  even,  or  at  midnight,  or  at  the  cock-crowing, 
or  in  the  morning.     Thou  hast  classed  together  the 
hovel    and    the    palaco,  glowing  with    equal    solemn 
grandeur,  so  that  no  man  can  tell  the  one  from  the 
other  when  the  crape   upon  the  door  betokens  that 
thou  tarriest  there.     Thou  hast  promoted  sodden  sleep 
to  be  the  most  awful  metaphor  of  time.     Thou  hast 
stripped  wealth  and  grandeur,  leaving  them   but  a 
shroud,  and  hast  clothed  obscurity  and  poverty  with 
their  eternally  suggestive  robe;    thou  hast  affirmed, 
and  thou  preserved,  that  grim  average  of  life  which 
greatness   refuses,  which    littleness    fears,  to  reaHse. 
Eomance  and  Poetry  and  Fancy  are  thy  wards,  making 
as  thou  dost  the  most  holden  eyes  to  overleap  time's 
poor  horizon,  following  depaited  treasure  with  wistful 
and  unresigning   love,  as   birds  follow  their  ravaged 
nests,  crying   as    they    go.     Oh,   sombre    chantress! 
Thou  hast  tilled  the  world  with  song,  plaintive  and 
piteous  though  it  be. 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  "  I  heard  Donald  whisper ; 
aud  the  answer  evidently  came  back  to  him  from  the 
dying  lips.  For  he  turned  to  me,  his  face  full  of 
tragedy:  "She's  talkiu'  aboot  Robin,"  he  said 
hoarsely;  "but  ye  dinna  ken.  Eobin  was  oor  laddie 
—an'  he's  oor  laddie  yet,  though  we've  had  nae 
word  o'  him  for  mony  a  year.  Him  an'  me  pairted 
in  wrath,  an'  he  went  oot   intil  the  dr-irk  aicht.     I 


m^  m 


ffOW  EI.SJE    WON  THE  GATE  ,55 

w„  ower   prood  tae  ca'  him   back,  but  his   mithcr 
01  owed   h..    ^    the    .00,  cryin    after    hnn-an" 
Bhe  cam  back  alane." 

Donald  stopped  suddenly,  for  the  mother',  etru„,,li„, 

.717  ""•/ "  •"""  ""■"•■  '""'-■  '<"  *'■«  ="^' 

.  Jr  ;'?k'"'",'"^°  •""  '»«  —;  ^"'  '•■ore'. 
.  place  .    the  .ngle  for  y.  yet,  my  baim.     IVe  ay. 

keep^.t  for  ye,  an'  I  keepit  the  fi:,  ba.m'  eve,  .in' 
fhe  "'•.  i  "''""  '"'  "  "'"•  ^"' '""'  -ht  I  pit 
ilrh^Let-"'"''""'"'"^''^-''''"^''"-^^ 

witlt^""-"™'"  "''''» -•--'»««■-« 
"She-,  fonnd  the  v,anderer,"  X  .aid;  and  we  both 
moved  nearer,  eaeh  signalling  the  other  to  be  still 

darkn?..'  ''"  *""'  "'  "''  ™'«°'"8  '"  *"'»'  «>» 
"  ^a,  na,  Bobin ;  yir  faither  '11  no'  be  angry      I  ken 
fin.  a  ye  say  is  trne,  but  he's  yir  faither  f'r  a'  that 
An   he  loves  ye  maist  as  weel  as  me;  but  oh,  n.y 
bonn.e,  there's  naue  loves  ye  like  yir  mither,     II' 

lung  but  ye  mau„na  tell  yir  faither.     I    ,eard  him 
pray  for  ye  all  alaue  by  himsel'.     He  prayed  to  God 

0  bring  ye  back-he  ca'd  ye  Kobin  richt  to  God    An' 
I  never  heard  yir  faither  greet  afore  or  syne.'   The 
Biuk  tee  It  wad  open  o'  itsel'  at  the  prodigal,  an'  it 
was  h.s  daem',  an'  he  didna  think  I  ke„t ;  but  I  ken*  i 
fi«e,an  I  thankit  the  Heavenly  Faither  mony  a  time" 


f  I 


-11 


iJL**-!.. 


-^m- 


s 


156     ST.  cuthbert's  of  the  west 

She  stopped,  exhaosted,  her  soul  flickering  in  her 
voice.  Donald  moved,  his  great  form  coming  athwart 
her  eager  kindling  eyea.  She  stirred,  her  vision 
evidently  nindered,  and  Donald  stepped  quickly  from 
before  her,  gazing  with  passionate  intentncss,  his  eyes 
shaded  by  his  fc'ind  like  one  who  peers  into  a  lane 
of  light. 

"  As  one  ^^hom  his  mother  coraforteth,  so  will " — 
I  began. 

" '  ish  ! "  said  Donald  sternly,  "  she's  wi'  him  yet. 
Har    ye!" 

Her  strength  seemed  now  returning,  for  she  went 
on — 

"Ay,  Eobin,  I'm  telliu'  ye  the  truth.  Yir 
faither's  thocht  0'  ye  is  the  thocht  he  had  when  ye 
were  a  bit  bairn  in  his  airms." 

The  anguished  father  flung  himself  upon  his  knees 
beside  the  bed,  his  hand  gently  stroking  his  wife's 
withered  cheek. 

"  Tell  him  that  again,  mither ;  tell  him  my  thocht 
0'  him  was  aye  the  same  as  yir  ain,  when  I  thocht  o' 
him  atween  God  an'  me.  Tell  him  me  an'  you  baith 
thocht  the  same.  Bid  him  hame,  Elsie.  Oh,  mither, 
I've  been  the  wanderer  masel',  an'  I'm  weary." 

My  heart  melted  in  ma  at  this,  for  the  eternal 
fatherly  was  sobbing  through  his  voice. 

The  familiar  tones  seemed  to  call  Elsie  back  from 
her  delirium,  for  she  suddenly  looked  upon  us  as  if 
we  had  not  been  there  before. 


HOIV  ELSIE   WON  THE  GATE  ,57 

"Oh.  faither,  Kobin's  comin'  hame  the  uicht  I. 
the  lamp  kindled  in  the  window  ?  We've  baith  been 
wae  these  mony  years,  but  the  mirk  'U  be  past  an'  by 
when  oor  laddie's  safe  hame  wi'  us  again." 

A  strange  sense  of  the  nearness  of  the  supernatural 
took  possession  of  me.  for  Elsie's  voice  w,x8  not  the 
voice  of  fevered  fancy ;  the  fast  ebbing  tide  of  life 
seemed  to  flow  buck  again,  her  strength  visibly 
increased,  as  if  she  must  remain  till  her  Kobin  had 
been  welcomed  home. 

In  spite  of  reason.  I  fell  to  listening  eagerly 
wondering  if  this  were  ind.  the  act  of  God  Why 
Bhodd  it  be  thought  a  th.  incredible  with  us  that 
-he  Rebuilder  of  Bethany's  desolated  house  should  still 
ply  His  ancient  industry  ? 

"  Raise  me  up  a  little,  faither,  for  I  maun  watch 
the  gate." 

i)onald  lifted  his  dyinj:  wife  with  caressing  easiness 
"ThafU  dae;  ay.  we've  baith  been  wae  these  mony 
years,  but  the  mirk  is  bye. 

'  Long  hath  *\<,  night  of  sorrow  reigned. 
Tha  dawn  shall  bring  us  light.' 

The  morn  is  wi'  us.  Donal',  an'  Robin's  at  the  gate  " 

Far  past  the   flickering  lamp  she  gazed,  and  her 

eyes  light  rose  and  fell  in  unison  with  approaching 

"He's  bye  the  erate."  shft  pn'ed  •  or,^  .-.-.  u.ij    ,     ,, 
at  bay,  for  the  words  chimed  like  cathedral,  bells. 


%n 


158        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

Fearsome  to  behold  was  the  awestruck  face  which 
Donald  turned  to  mine,  and  full  of  questioning  dread, 
I  doubt  not,  were  the  eyes  that  met  his  own.  Was 
this  the  doing  of  the  Lord,  or  was  it  but  the  handiwork 
of  death,  that  wizard  oculist,  so  often  lending  mystic 
vision  to  pilgrims  setting  under  darkness  out  to  sea  ? 

Leaving  death  and  Elsie  to  their  unequal  conflict, 
we  started  with  one  impulse  to  the  window;  but 
Donald  was  there  before  me,  his  eyes  shaded  by  his 
hands,  burning  through  the  dark  a  pathway  to  the 
gate. 

"  God  be  mercifu',"  he  muttered,  and  then  turned 
swiftly  towards  the  stairs,  for  a  hand  was  fumbling 
at  the  latch.  I  waited  trembling,  and  I  heard  no 
word ;  but  the  aroma  of  a  soul's  se  ad  spring  stole 
sweet  and  unafraid  into  the  chamber  of  death. 
•  •  •  •  •  • 

I  met  them  at  the  door  as  Donald  said,  "Yir 
mither's  deein',"  and  there  broke  from  the  rugged 
man  beside  him  a  low  moaning  sound,  like  to  many 
waters  when  some  opposing  thing  hath  at  length  been 
overswept.  It  was  quickly  checked,  and  the  silence 
of  love  and  anguish  took  its  place. 

I  drew  Donald  gently  back  and  closed  the  door 
upon  them  twain,  the  waiting  mother  and  the  wandoi - 
ing  son,  for  there  was  nevar  bridal  hour  like  to  this. 

"  My  mither,  oh,  my  mither  ! "  I  heard  him  say  ;  and 
Elsie  spoke  no  word,  but  the  long  ache  was  ended  and 
the  great  wound  was  well. 


now  ELSIE   WON  THE  GATE  159 

Twaa  but  a  moment  again  when  a  trembling  voice 
called,  "  Faither,  she's  wantin'  ye." 

We  entered  the  love-lit  room,  and  Elsie  beckoned 
him  swiftly  to  her  side. 

"I  maun  be  gaun  sune,"  she  whispered,  and  then 
followed  some  words  too  low  for  my  ears  to  catch. 

Donald  turned  to  me:  "She  wants  to  hae  the 
sacrament  dispensit  till  us  a',"  and  his  face  was  full 
of  dubious  entreaty,  for  the  kirk  session  of  St. 
Cuthbert's  waa  sternly  set  against  private  ad- 
ministration. 

The  session  and  its  rules  were  in  that  moment  to 
me  but  as  the  dust.  Beyond  their  poor  custody  was 
a  holy  hour  such  as  this.  The  little  table  was  quickly 
spread,  the  snow-white  bread  and  the  wine  pressed 
by  a  mother's  priestly  hands.  I  was  about  to  proceed 
with  the  holy  ordinance  when  Elsie  stopped  me. 

"  Bide  a  meenit.  Donal',  get  ye  the  token,  the  ane 
wee  Elsie  loved.  My  hairt  tells  me  she's  no'  far  awa 
the  noo.  She'll  e'en  show  forth  the  Lord's  deith  alang 
wi'  us.  The  Maister  o'  the  feast  is  here,  and  why  wad 
He  no'  bring  oor  Elsie  wi'  Him  ?  Wha  kens  but  I'U 
gang  hame  wi'  them  baith  ? " 

Her  husband,  obedient  to  the  seer's  voice,  passed 
quickly  to  an  adjoining  room,  and  in  an  instant  re- 
appeared,  bearing  the  well-worn  token  in  his  hands, 
the  same  his  dying  child  had  fondly  held  ;  and  I 
heard  again  the  low  refrain  which  grief  had  taught 
him   years    ago:   "Christ    an'    oor    Elsie  — an'    her 


9IPIP 


i6o       ST.  CVTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 


l!| 


mither."    This  last  was  new,  learned  in  sorrow's  latest 
hour. 

He  handed  it  to  his  wife,  who  took  it,  turning  her 
wan  face  to  mine. 

"  There's  only  ane,  but  it'll  dae  us  a' — let  Eobin 
haud  it.  Tak'  it,  laddie;  it's  warm  frae  yir  sister's 
haunV 

The  wanderer's  reverent  hand  received  it,  and  holy 
memories,  long  banished,  flowed  back  into  the  heart 
that  had  not  been  their  home  smce  the  golden  days 
of  boyhood.  Of  his  mother  and  his  sister  were  they 
all,  and  they  laved  that  heart  till  it  was  ahnost  clean, 
for  they  were  m  disguise  but  memories  of  God,  fore- 
shadowing the  Greater  Incarnation. 

"Noo  we're  ready,  an*  we're  a'  here.     Eaise  the 

psalm,  faither,  the  sacrament  ane,"  she  said  faintly 

"  tak'   '  St.   Pf.ul's,' "   and    Donald's   quavering    voice 
essayed — 

"I'll  of  sJTstion  take  the  cup, 
On  God'a  name  will  I  call ; 
I'll  pay  my  vows  now  to  the  Lord 
Before  His  people  all. 

• 

Dear  in  God's  sight  is  His  saints'  death. 
Thy  servant.  Lord  "— 

but  the  faltering  voice  refused. 

I  broke  the  bread  and  poured  the  wine,  handing 
thu  sacred  emblems  first  to  the  dying  one,  so  soon 
to  take  them  new  in  the  kingdom  of  God.  Then 
Draald  partook,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.     To 


irOW  ELSIE   WON  THE  GATE         ,6i 

Robin  next  I  proffered  the  holy  symbols,  but  he  drew 
back,  stretching  forth  his  hands  towards  the  bed. 

"  I  dauma— IVe  wandered  ower  far,"  he  said.     "  I 
hear  the  russlin'  o'  the  husks." 

"Dinna  fear,  Eobin,"  whispered  his  mother's  lips 
"We're  a'  but  bairns  comin'  back  to  oor  Faither's 
hoose;  God  loves  ye  mair  than  either  yir  faither  or 
me— I'm  near  the  kingdom,  an'  I  ken." 

"My  son,  my  laddie,"--it  was  his  father's  broken 
voice,— "let  us  tak'  the  feast  thegither.  I'm  a  puir 
prodigal  maser— but  the  door  is  open  wide,  an'  we'll 
baith  come  hame  to  God." 

"I'll  tak'  it  frae  ma  mither's  hands,"  said  Robin. 
I  handed  the  elements  to  her,  ordained  from  all 
etermty  to  minister  to  the  son  she  bore;  with 
tremblmg  hands  she  dispensed  them  to  him  high 
pnestess  unto  God.  her  dying  eyes  distilling  the  very 
love  which  shed  its  fragrance  when  the  all  but  dyin<. 
Saviour  first  brake  the  holy  bread.  "^ 

When  we  were  through.  Elsie's  voice  was  heard 
saying  to  herself,  « Unto  Him  who  loved  us  and 
washed  us  from  our  sins  in  His  own  blood,"  which 
was  followed  by  a  long  silence. 

"  WuU  ye  no'  pronounce  the  benediction  ? "  Donald 
said  at  last,  for  he  was  by  nature  an  ecclesiastic 
"Did  you  not  hear  it  ? "  I  replied. 
The  silence  deepened,  the  breathing  grew  heavier 
and  we  two  stood  together  looking  down  upon  her 
face.     Robin's  was   h^  his  mother's.     Suddenly  her 


■ 

ll 


'f 


If 
t 


■•■K^a 


1 6a        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 


eyes  opened   wide,   fastening   themselves   upon   her 
son. 

"  I'll  sune  win  hame,"  she  murmured  gladly,  "  an' 
I  want  ye  to  say  yir  bit  prayer  to  me,  Robin,  afore 
I  gang,  the  way  ye  did  when  ye  were  a  baimie.  Kneel 
doon,  Kobin,  an'  say  it  to  me,  an'  we'll  baith  say  it  to 
God,  for  I'm  weary  tae.     '  Noo  I  lay  me,'  ye  ken." 

The  strong  man  bowed  beside  his  mother's  bed, 
and  the  great  anthem  began,  the  sobbing  bass  of  the 
broken  heart  mingUng  with  the  feeble  dying  voice— 

"Novr  I  lay  me  down  to  tleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep ; 
If  I  shonld  die  before  I  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take," 

Suddenly  she  pointed  with  uplifted  hand:  "Oh, 
faither,  I  see  oor  Elsie's  face— an'  the  token's  in  her 
haun',  an'  it's  a'  bricht  wi'  gowden  Ucht.  She's 
biddin'  us  a'  hame— me,  an'  faither,  an'  Robin  "—and 
she  passed  into  the  homeland  bearing  the  prodigal's 
name  with  her  up  to  God. 

I  gently  closed  her  eyes.  Donald  strod  long 
beside  the  bed ;  then,  taking  his  son  into  his  arms, 
he  said — 

"  Yir  mither's  bye  the  gate." 


XIX 


A  maiden's   L0V2 

■^HAT  self-contradicting  things  we  are!  The 
very  joys  we  crave  bring  sorrow  when  they 
come ;  for  they  crowd  out  some  only  lesser  joy,  which 
rejected,  turns  to  bitterness  and  takes  ite  long  revenge' 
It  IS  one  of  the  blessed  laws  of  life  that  no  heart' 
however  hospitable,  can  entertein  more  than  one 
sorrow  at  one  time,  how  many  so  ever  be  waiting  at 
the  door.     Each  must  wait  its  turn. 

But  alas!  Joy  has  its  corresponding  law;  every 
hearts  pleasure  is  an  alternative,  and  if  nauch  we 
would  enjoy,  much  also  we  must  renounce.    Joy  usuaUy 

wZ  2  ^  ■  7."'  '''  ^^'  P"P^^'^^'^  ^«  ^  ^-I 
which  th.  j8t-born  18.  that  our  homage  may  not  return 
unto  us  void. 

^K  ?ir''I  tr  ^^'^^  '™8^g'  """y  "  ■""  be  Mid 
that  toeu.  fulfilment  would  be  our  keeneet  disappoint- 
ment 1  For  matance,  the  wife  of  our  family  phydeian 
u  for  ever  lamenting  that  no  epouae  in  all  New  Jed- 
burgh se..  aa  little  of  her  huaband  aa  doe,  ahe,  for 
ever  longmg  that  he  might  be  released  to  the  enjoy 


* 


i\ 


A\ 


i64        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

ment  of  his  own  fireside.  Yet  should  a  fickle  or 
convalescent  public  suddenly  so  release  him,  our 
doctor's  wife  would  be  of  all  women  most  miserable. 

Even  as  I  write,  I  am  disturbed  by  a  lad  of  twenty, 
who  starts  to-day  on  his  long  journey  to  Athabasca 
and  the  waiting  prairies  of  our  great  Canadian  West. 
Full  of  pathetic  joy  is  his  youthful  face;  but  his 
mother  is  bowed  beside  the  bed  whereon  she  gave  him 
birth — her  cup,  she  thinks,  would  be  full  to  over- 
flowing if  her  first-bom  son  were  suddenly  to  dispack 
his  box  and  take  up  the  old  nestling  life  again.  The 
sun  would  have  turned  back  to  its  undimmed  meridian, 
she  weens;  and  yet  she  knows  full  well  that  this 
very  longing,  were  it  gratified,  would  poison  her  over- 
flowing cup  and  tarnish  her  mother's  pride.  If  she 
were  asked  to  choose  between  these  two,  womanlike, 
she  would  elect  to  have  them  both  —  but  God 
forbids. 

The  youth's  father  says :   "  Let  the  lad  go  forth  " 

and  God  is  a  Father,  though  He  takes  counsel  of  a 
mother-heart. 

All  this  reflective  vein  flows  from  this  poor  heart 
of  mine,  the  truth  whereof  that  heart  hath  sorrow- 
fully proved. 

For  my  daughter  Margaret  holds  within  it  a  place 
of  solitary  tenderness,  more  exclusively  her  own  as 
the  years  go  by.  And  I  too  was  forced  to  the  great 
alternative,  the  same  which  hath  wrung  uncounted 
parents'  hearts  before  I  saw  the  light,  the  same  as  will 


A  MAIDEN'S  LOVE 


i6s 


rend  thousands  more  when  that  poor  light  has  filtered 
through  darkness  into  Day. 

What  father  is  there  who  can  contempUte  without 
dismay  the  prospect  of  his  only  daughter  surrendered 
to  another's  care,  though  that  other  press  the  cruel 
claim  of  a  mate's  more  passionate  love  ?  Where  is 
the  father  that  does  not  long  to  shelter  his  child's 
sweet  innocence  for  ever  within  the  pavilion  of  his 
heart's  loving  tenderness  ?  And  yet,  where  is  the 
father  who  would  be  free  from  torture,  were  he  assured 
that  his  soul's  yearning  would  be  satisfied,  and  that 
no  high  claim  of  unrelated  love  would  ever  rival  or 
dispute  his  own  ? 

It  was  my  own  fault  that  Margaret's  attachment 
to  Angus  Strachan  came  to  me  as  a   bolt  from  the 
blue.     I  had  never  dreamed  of  i^— I  was  so  sure  of 
everybody  loving  Margaret,  that  I  never  thought  of 
anybody  loving  her.     Of  course  it   was  easily  seen 
that   their   friendship  was    mutually  cliprished;    but 
friendship,  although  a  mother's   hope,  is  a  father's 
reassurance.     Margaret's  mother  had  more  than  once 
spoken  of  their  friendship  in   that  portentous   tone 
which  all  women  hope  to  assume  b' .  .?  -bey  die;  and 
her    words    exuded    the   far-off  frt.,raiK3    of   orange 
blossoms.     She  began  with    the    assurance  that  the 
friendship  between  Angus  and  our  Margaret  had  no 
particular   meaning— to   which    I   agreed.     A   little 
later  on  she  ventured  the  remark  that  she  did  not 
think  Angus  cared  for  Margaret  except  as  a  friend— 


f  \\ 


i    til 


I    ' 


i66       ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OP  THE   WEST 


\\ 


i 


! 

'      f 
I 


to  whioh  also  I  cheerfully  agreed.  Later  still,  she 
resorted  to  the  interrogative,  and  asked  me  if  I 
thought  Margaret  would  ever  marry,  to  which  I 
answered — "I  hope  so,  but  she  shall  not  with  my 
consent." 

"  I  was  married  when  I  was  Margaret's  age,"  added 
my  wife.  (What  woman  is  there  who  does  not  love 
to  say  the  same?)  "Margaret  is  nearly  twenty- 
one." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  but  few  women  have  the  chance 
that  came  to  you, .  d  no  man  ever  had  provocation 
like  to  mine."  This  was  followed  by  a  passage  at 
arms,  during  which,  of  course,  the  fair  debater's  lips 
were  sealed. 

By  degrees  my  wife's  attack  upon  the  subject  grew 
bolder  and  more  frontal. 

"Do  you  think  Margaret  cares  anything  for 
Angus  ? "  she  asked,  the  hour  being  that  post-retiring 
one  sacred  in  every  age  to  conjugal  conference. 

"  I  don't  think  so — certainly  not ;  why  should  she  ? 
We  have  a  triangular  family  altogether — two  to  each 
of  us,  and  why  should  nhe  want  any  more  ?  She  has 
you  and  me,  juBt  as  I  have  you  and  her,  and  you  have 
her  and  me." 

"  But  that  ^'s  foolish ;  you  don't  understand." 

"  I  don't  want  to  understand,"  I  answered  drowsily. 
"  Margaret's  only  a  child — and  I  want  to  go  to  sleep ; 
if  I  don't  sleep  over  my  sermon  to-night,  the  people 
will  to-morrow."     For  it  was  Saturday  night. 


'i^iS^ 


A  MAJDSIf'S  LOVE  ,4 

of  ""1  "  'I'  '^'"' "  '"  ■""  "'^'P-     ^"0  W,  affair. 
of  other  h«m.   are   by  other,   easUy   borne    ,v« 

1m  .        '^'^°"°'  "*"■  ""  ■^Wen'e  heart 

•T      ^         "■  ""  P*""'  '"'"'  '^«'  holy  P«.ion 
.nd  oonaderate  deep.  like  an  indulgent  nuLnnrne' 
her  etep,  aeide,  fearing  to  break  in  upon  the  1" 
^kmn    revelry.     Even    when    .he    vVnture.    "gh 
^»Uy  wrthdra^g  the   .till  unwearied  heart  from 

fteZT,'"^;        "■"  '""■"^  "P'  "■"  «P  from 
the  new  found  «.tem.  of  .weet  and  tender  blias. 

Oh.  hoy  level  Who  .haU  «parate  the  joy  thou 
hnngeet  fron.  «.e  heart  that  open,  wide  tolellZ 
It,  even  a.  the  flower  bare.  it.  bo.om  to  the  .un  J 

DerknoM  and  tear,  and  wrrow  may  follow  fa.f 
f..«  «.d  misgiving,  and  dread  di.ooveriee  ma^  li- 
do™ upon  thy  train;  broken-heartedne..  and  bleak 
perpetual  m^denhood  may  be  thine  only  relio.  „ 
flowenng  with  the  year.,  the  thorn,  of  grief  and  »"' 
erty  «.d  widowhood  may  grow  where  youthf^  fa^l 

mth  thy  br«ia]  .ong  may  yet  peal  forth  the  Eachel 
«y-but  thou  helongeet  to  the  heart  for  ever,  and  none 
of  the«  can  d:spo..e«  the  «,ul  of  it.  „„f„rg„tten 
traneport  Nor  fire,  nor  flood,  nor  fraud  can  prevail 
.garnet  thee>  Thy  t^„e.  moth  and  ruet  doth  ^ 
irrupt,  nor  thieves  break  through  and  .teal ' 

A.  a  burning  building  lend.  it.  heat  to  all  beside 


'^  M 


.  1" 


i68        ST.  CUTHBERTS  OF  THE   WEST 


\  ! 


\   r 


t  i. 

i  r 


it,  BO  was  my  own  soul  kindled,  half  with  rapture  and 
half  with  anger,  by  the  story  of  Margaret's  passion 
Father's  and  daughter's  hearts  were  never  pressed 
closer  to  each  other  than  were  mine  and  my  only 
child's. 

It  was  the  succeeding  Sunday  night  that  Margaret, 
in  her  father's  arms,  breathed  out  the  tender  tale ;  I 
was  enjoying  my  evening  smoke  (a  poet-sermonic 
anodyne),  but  long  before  Margaret  had  finished,  my 
cigar  was  in  ashes  and  my  heart  in  flame. 

"Father,"  she  began,  her  face  hidden  on  my 
shoulder,  "  I  am  either  very  happy  or  very  wretched, 
and  I  cannot  decide  which  till  I  know  which  you  will 

be." 

"The  old  problem,  daughter,  is  it  not?"  I  an- 
swered. "  Still  longing  to  enter  a  hospital  ?  And  you 
want  to  wheedle  your  old  father  into  giving  you 
up  ? "  for  Margaret,  like  every  other  modem  girl,  had 
been  craving  entrance  to  that  noble  calling.  The 
high-bom  and  the  love-lorn,  those  weary  of  life,  or  of 
love,  or  both,  find  a  refuge  there. 

"  No,  father,  I  was  not  thinking  of  that  at  alL  I 
don't  want  to  be  a  nurse  any  more." 

"What  is  it,  then?  You  have  never  had  any 
secrets  from  your  father,  and  you  will  LOt  have  any 
now,  will  you,  dear  one  ? " 

"  Oh,  father,  I  will  tell  you  all  I  can — but  I  cannot 
tell  you  all" 

I  started  in  my  chair,  for  the  child  note  was  absent 


mtt  'M^.. 


A  MAIDEN'S  LOVE 


169 


from  her  wordb,  and  the  passion  A  womanhood  was 
in  its  stead.  Awesome  to  a  father's  heart  is  that 
moment  wherein  a  daughter's  7oice  unconsciously 
asserts  the  suffrage  of  her  soul. 

"  Go  on,  my  daughter — tell  me  what  you  may,"  I 
said,  for  I  knew  now  that  the  realm  was  one  wherein 
parental  authority  was  of  no  avail. 

Only  silence  followed ;  her  lips  spoke  i»o  word,  but 
the  heaving  bosom  had  a  rhetoric  all  its  own  and  told 
me  that  a  new  life,  begotten  not  of  mine,  was  throb- 
bing there.  An  alien  life  it  seemed  to  me,  a  soul's 
expansion  beyond  the  province  of  my  own,  an  infini- 
tude which  denied  the  sway  of  even  a  father's  love. 
At  length  she  spoke — 

"  Oh,  father,  I  will  tell  you  all— that  is,  all  I  can. 
But  I  am  so  lonely.  You  cannot  follow  me,  father. 
I  have  gone  away  in — with  another — in  where  you 
cannot  go." 

"  What  mean  you,  Margaret  ?  In  where  ?  Where 
can  I  not  come  ?  "  I  asked,  perplexed. 

"Father,  let  me  tell  you.  I  am  speaking  in  a 
figure,  I  know — but  it  is  the  only  way — and  you  will 
understand.  Love  is  a  far  country,  and  prodigals 
take  their  journey  there — but  they  seek  it  two  by 
two.  Oh,  father,  another  one  and  I  went  off  together 
to  that  far,  far  land,  and  those  who  go  leave  father 
and  mother  far  behind.  But  there  is  no  hunger  and 
no  famine  there." 

Eich    the    endowment   love    bestows!     While  we 


>    i 


liff    . 


170        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 

had  all  thought  Margaret  anything  but  doll,  yet  thii 
new  speech  of  metaphor  and  miiBio  fell  ipon  my  ears 
ft8  a  great  surprise  That  lire  coal  from  off  God'e 
altar  had  touched  her  lips  when  first  another's  burn- 
ing lips  of  love  anointed  them  with  flame.  When 
this  new  sun  arises,  the  humblest  of  God's  meadow 
creatures  know  that  the  soul  has  wings  and  spread 
them  in  that  holy  light. 

Closer  to  my  breast  I  pressed  the  heart  whose 
tumult,  as  it  struggled  with  its  muffled  witioBses, 
started  the  same  passionate  riot  in  my  own. 

"  There  are  many  voices  in  your  heart.  f^auRhter 
mine;  let  them  speak  every  one  and  tell  rae  .ill  th'^ir 
story.     Where  is  it  that  your  father  cannot  pomc  ?  ' 

"  Father,"  she  answered,  with  sweet  calmnces  out 
with  averted  face,  "I  never  loved  you  more  than 
now.  But  love's  joy  is  in  its  loneliness,  its  sweet 
bridai  loneliness.  It  was  a  long  weary  way  that  an- 
other one  and  I — you  know  his  name,  and  I  cannot 
speak  it  yet — walked  together,  but  not  alone  to- 
gether ;  for  others  walked  besides  us — and  friendship 
is  a  cruel  thing.  But  oh,  father  dear,  one  day — no, 
it  was  in  the  gloaming,  we  saw  an  avenue  far  be- 
yond; and  we  both  knew  it  was  for  us  and  for  us 
alone.  I  saw  it  first,  but  I  did  not  let  Angus  know. 
But  he  saw  it  in  a  moment  and  he  started  quickly  on. 
Then  my  feet  fell  back,  though  my  heart  pressed  on 
with  his.  But  Angus  would  not  let  me  stop.  He 
hurried  me   on ;  and  it  was  sweet  to  be  overborne, 


A   MAIDEN'S  LOVE 


171 


for  love  makes  a  man   so  strong  and  a   woman   so 
weak. 

"  When  we  came  close  up  to  where  you  enter  in,  I 
saw  that  the  way  within  was  sweet,  and  shadowy,  so 
shadowy,  but  I  saw  that  it  was  Ion?,  so  long.  And 
I  turned  away,  though  my  heart  never  turned.  Bui 
Angus's  eyes  never  moved  from  the  avenue,  and  he 
whispered  that  it  was  meant  for  us  two— just  for  us 
two— «nd  for  none  on  enrth  beside ;  he  said  no  one 
could  go  in  alone,  because  it  would  vanish  if  they  did 
— and  he  held  me  close — and  we  went  in  together — 
and  we  shall  come  out  no  more  for  ever.  That  is 
where  you  cannot  come,  father — nor  mother,  nor 
dearest  friend  can.  Tou  could  not  if  you  would,  for 
it  is  God  who  keeps  the  gate." 

Her  tremblJL  '  voice  was  still,  but  throbbing  heart 
and  swelling  Lo*  >in  utill  poured  forth  their  passionate 
utterance, 

I  Aed    again,  yielding  before  the 


•"Pi- 


Soon 
inner  ti' 

"Ana,  f  o; 
told  the  arti 


1 '..>?' 


^  ->*i  cheek  pressed  to  mine  fore- 
"  •  "it  was  at  evening,  as  I  said, 
and  Angus  and  x  iiad  wandered  far — farther  than  we 
thought.  We  were  resting  on  a  grassy  knoll.  Angus 
had  been  speaking  of  his  mother,  and  he  sa'd  that  the 
beauty  of  Nature  always  made  his  heart  ache.  Surely, 
father,  there  is  nothing  so  lonesome  as  beauty  when 
the  heart's  lonesome !  Angus  and  I  were  still  a  long 
time— till  it  was  growing  dusk ;  and  then  at  last  he 


I 


I 


^  *-  e.^  ^  p  <r» 


ifa        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OP  THE    WEST 


I 


!    \''i 


\ 


':   i 


Baid,  •  How  lonely  all  this  is  if  no  one  loves  you  I " 
And  I  started  at  his  tone,  and  when  my  eyes  met  his 
I  went  down  before  them,  for  they  caressed  me  so. 
Father  dear,  I  need  not  tell  you  all  I  could  not  il  I 
would — no  girl  could.  I  know,  I  remember,  oh,  I 
remember  what  he  said,  and  no  one  else  knows  bufc 
me,  and  my  soul  trusted  him,  and  he  took  me  into 
the  sheltering  place  where  nobody  but  God  could  see 
my  soul's  surrender." 

"My  daughter,  my  little  daughter,"  was  all  I 
said. 

"  Wait,  father,*  her  face  was  now  hidden  deep,  and 
she  was  whispering  in  my  very  heart,  "there  is 
another  thing  I  want  to  tell  you — no,  two  things, 
for  they  were  both  together. 

"Father,  he  kissed  me — on  the  lips — and  I  did 
not  believe  it;  for  just  a  moment  before  we  had 
been  listening  to  the  crickets  and  looking  at  the  sun. 
But  he  kissed  me  on  the  lips,  and  my  whole  soul 
surged  hot,  and  my  eyes  were  closed — for  I  felt  him 
coming  and  I  could  not  speak  nor  move. 

"  And  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  thought  of  the 
sacrament  and  the  holy  wine,  and  everything  was 
holy — not  like  music,  but  like  a  bell,  a  great 
cathedral  bell  with  its  unstained  voice.  And,  father 
(I  shall  feel  purer  when  I  tell  you  this),  father,  that 
very  moment  I  felt  a  strange  new  life  in  my  breast 
and  the  old  girlish  life  was  gone — and  there  came 
before  my  closed  eyes  a  vision  of  another  just  like 


A  MAIDEN* S  LOVE 


»73 


AnguB,  white  and  soft  and  helpless — and  I  heard  its 
cry — and  my  heart  melted  in  me  with  the  great 
compassion.  And  I  knew  that  what  I  called  love 
was  really  life,  just  life.  And  I  felt  no  shame  at  all, 
but  a  great  pride  that  it  was  all  so  holy — for  it  is 
holy,  father,  and  no  one  prompted  it  but  God. 
Father,  do  you  love  me  ? " 

I  bent  to  kiss  the  glowing  lips,  but  I  remembered, 
and  kissed  her  brow  instead,  beautiful  and  pure 
before  my  misty  eyes.  She  drew  herself  gently  from 
my  arms,  and  in  a  moment  the  sweet  presence  had 
departed.  But  the  fragrance  of  love  and  innocence 
was  left  behind,  and  my  faltering  answer  came  at  last, 
though  she  heard  it  not — 

"Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall 
see  God." 


t      1 


il 


-'H 


i  t 


XX 


A   FATHKR's   CBUCinxiON 


i 


TT  18  from  joy  alone  that  real  sorrow  can  bo 
-*■  brewed.  Were  joj  to  perish  from  the  earth, 
human  lips  would  soon  forget  the  bitter  taste  of 
anguish.  The  only  intolerable  clouds  are  tho 
which  follow  swift  upon  some  rosy  mom,  frowning 
its  every  sunbeam  into  darkness,  pursuing  its  fugitive 
smUes  as  the  hound  pursues  the  deer.  The  soul's 
great  sirkness  is  in  joy's  relapse. 

Into  the  tide  of  our  daughter's  virgin  gladness  her 
mother  and  1  were  soon  gladly  swept.  Love  and 
joy  are  incendiary  things,  and  we  soon  succumbed  to 
the  Bweet  contagion.  Apart  altogether  from  our 
daughter's  choice,  he  might  well  have  been  our  own; 
for  Angus  Strachan  was  strong  of  body,  and  vigorous 
of  mind,  and  pure  of  soul.  He  had  made  swift 
strides  in  his  chosen  calling,  and  was  now  a  partner 
in  one  of  the  manufacturing  firms  which  were  New 
Jedburgh's  pride.  At  the  door  of  industry  he  had 
knocked  with  patient  hand,  and  wealth  had  answered 
to  that  knock  herself.     He  was  a  man  of  influence 


174 


<4  1^ 


imi' 


A  FATHER* S  CRUCIFIXION 


175 


ever  increasing  in  New  Jedburgh.  In  St.  Cuthbert's, 
he  waa  held  vi  high  esteem  by  all,  and  the  next 
election,  we  knew,  would  call  him  to  the  elder's 
honoured  place.  Prepossessing  in  appearance,  manly 
in  bearing,  musical  in  speech,  fragrant  in  character, 
Angus  might  well  wake  the  echoes  of  even  our 
Margaret's  noble  heart 

Wherefore  there  was  joy  in  St  Cuthbert's  manse, 
and  in  its  three  devoted  hearts,  beating  high  with  a 
common  hope.     Our  morning  sun  shone  radiantly. 

But  the  eclipse  came  suddenly.  It  was  again  the 
Sabbath  evening,  and  Margaret  again  was  nestling 
close,  her  face  bearing  more  and  more  the  beauty 
which  love's  tuition  gives. 

"  Father,"  she  suddenly  began,  "  I  want  to  ask  you 
something." 

"  What  is  it,  child  ? "  I  said. 

"You  know  that  verse  in  the  Bible  that  says — 
'  Who  did  sin,  this  man  or  his  parents  ? '  You  L.cw 
the  verse.  Well,  father,  who  did  sin  ?  Was  it  the 
man,  or  was  it  his  parents  ? " 

"  What  a  strange  question,  child  !  What  on  earth 
has  that  to  do  with  you  ? " 

"Never  mind,  father — let  us  stick  to  the  text" 
she  answered.  "  You  are  a  minister,  and  I  want  you 
to  stick  to  the  text.     Tell  me,  who  did  sin  ? " 

"  Well,  if  the  man's  blindness  was  l)ecau8e  of  gin, 
since  he  was  bom  blind,  and  since  he  couldn't,  sin 
before  he  waa  bom,  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  his 


'ij 


111 


r'#wiL. 


1;: 


176        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

parents,"  I  answered  slowly.     "What  difference  does 

It  make  to  you  ? "     For  I  was  curious  to  know. 
"And  don't  you  think."  she  went  on  unheedingly 

"  that  It  was  cruel  for  anybody  to  hold  that  poor  man' 

responsible  for  his  parents'  sin  ? " 

"I  suppose  so,  but  why  are  you  catechising  me 

like    this,   burrowing   among   old    questions   of   two 

thousand  years  ago  ? " 

"Oh,  father,  there  are  no  old  questions,"  and  there 

was  a  strange  cry  in  her  voice,  "because  there  are  no 
old  hves.  They  are  aU  new  every  day--they  all 
live  agam,  father.  Sin  is  new  and  sorrow  is  new— 
and  the  Cross  is  new,  father— so  new  and  so  cruel " 
she  cned,  the  tears  now  flowing  fast;  "and  that 
question  isn't  old— it  is  asked  every  day.  And  it 
18  asked  of  me— and  I  have  to  answer  it.  and  answer 
It  as  you  have  done,  and  as  the  compassionate 
Saviour  would  have  done."  she  concluded,  her  voice 
trembling  with  its  passion. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean.  Margaret?  Sin 
sorrow,  the  Cross,  what  have  these  to  do  with  you?" 
I  asked  eagerly. 

"  It  was  only  last  night  that  Angus  told  me.  Poor 
fellow,  his  face  was  white  when  he  came,  and  his  look 
was  full  of  agony.  Of  course  I  asked  him  to  tell  me 
what  was  the  matter.  We  were  in  the  library  for  I 
always  took  him  there  because  it  has  a  fireplace  and 
we  both  love  to  watch  the  fira  I  had  laid  the  wood 
myself  last  night  before  Angus  came,  and  there  was 


W 


kftLj^nii 


A  FATHER'S  CRUCIFIXION 


177 


never  task  bo  dear — it  waa  the  gloaming  when  I  laid 
it,  but  I  knew  it  world  soon  be  bright. 

"  But  about  his  answer  to  my  question.  Surely  no 
maiden  yet  had  so  strange  an  answer.  For,  without 
a  word,  he  went  to  the  desk  and  took  the  Bible  in  his 
hands.  When  he  had  found  the  place  he  stood 
before  me  and  read  me  this — 

"'Then  cometh  Jesus  with  them  unto  the  place 
called  Gethsemane.  ...  My  soul  is  exceeding 
sorrowful  unto  death.  ...  My  Father,  if  this  cup 
may  not  pass  away  from  Me  except  I  drink  it,  Thy 
will  be  done.* 

"  His  voice  was  strange  to  me,  and  I  was  trembling, 
for  I  didn't  know  what  he  meant.  But  I  knew  it 
was  my  Judgment  Day. 

"'Angus,'  I  said  faintly,  'what  do  you  mean? 
What  has  that  to  do  with  us  ?  That  is  a  story  of 
two  thousand  years  ago.' 

" '  Margaret,'  he  answered, '  the  story  of  Gethsemane 
is  never  old.  Its  willows  cast  the  same  shadows  yet 
as  those  into  which  our  Saviour  crept.  And  that 
cup  is  never  empty,  though  human  lips  are  ever 
draining  it  to  its  dregs.  It  is  close  to  my  lips  to- 
night— and  to  your  sweet  lips  too,  my  darling and 

we  must  drink  it  together.' 

"'Together,  Angus,'  I  said,  'thank  God  for  that.' 
The  word  was  sweet.  Oh,  father,  head-winds  are 
precious  unto  love  if  only  love's  hands  togethei  hold 
the  sail 


11 

if 


i 


178       ST.  CUTHBERTS  OF  THE   WEST 

"  After  a  long  silence  Angus  spoke  again  and  my 
poor  heart  had  to  listen. 

"'Margaret,'  be  began,  *no  man  ever  renounced 
what  I  renounce  to-night,  for  no  man  ever  loved  as  I 
love  you,  though  I  reckon  many  a  man  would  swear 
the  same,  knowing  not   his  perjury — for  none  can 

know  my  lova     And   joy,  and  pride,  and  home 

and  all  with  which  our  pure  thought  had  enriched 
our  home— all  these  must  I  surrender  now.  I  must 
give  up  everything  but  love— and  that  is  mine 
for  ever.  Oh,  Margaret,  I  won  you,  did  I  not  ?  I,  a 
poor  Scottish  laddie,  a  herd  among  the  heather.  I 
came  to  Canada  lang  syne,  and  by  and  by  I  won  you, 
did  I  not,  Margaret  ? 

"•But  I  must  give  you  up — and  I  will  tell  you 
why. 

'"It  was  not  hard  for  me  to  find  that  story  of 
Gethsemana  When  I  was  but  a  laddie  among  the 
Scottish  hills  my  mother's  Bible  aye  opened  at  that 
very  place;  and  laddie  though  I  was,  I  noticed  it, 
for  the  page  was  marked  and  worn  and  soiled  with 
tears. 

" '  I  asked  my  mother  many  a  time  why  the  Book 
aye  opened  there,  and  what  soiled  and  marked  it  so. 
She  told  me  not  for  long,  saying  only  that  it  was 
marked  and  soiled  before  her  laddie  had  been 
born. 

" '  But  the  night  before  I  sailed  from  Annan  Foot, 
she  put  her  arms  about  me  and  she  told  me  of  the 


A  FATHER'S  CRUCIFIXION 


179 


sngoish  of  her  eool  and  all  about  the  tear-stained 
place — for  she  told  me  of  her  own  Gethsemane  and 
of  the  bitter  cup,  and  said  that  her  laddie's  lips  could 
pass  it  by  no  more  than  hers. 

"'And  ever  since  that  night  ma  ain  Buik  aye 
opens  at  Gethsemane.  Oh,  Margaret,  you  under- 
stand, do  yon  not  ? '  he  cried.  '  I  am  not  worthy  of 
you  and  of  your  love. 

"'The  far-off  strain  of  sin  starting  from  another 
heart  than  mine  (another  than  my  mother's,  by  the 
living  God)  has  stained  my  name.  Mine  is  an  un- 
hallowed name.  Mine  is  a  shadowed  birth.  Mine 
is  the  perpetual  Gethsemane  and  mine  the  unemptied 
oupi 

" '  Forgive  me,  Margaret,  for  the  wrong  I  did  you. 
I  should  never  have  spoken  love  to  you  at  all,  or  if  I 
did,  I  should  have  told  you  of  the  blight  upon  it; 
but  the  sky  and  the  trees  and  the  hill  were  clothed 
that  night  in  the  beauty  that  wrapt  my  soul,  and  I 
thought  that  God  had  forgotten  and  had  shrived  me 
in  the  same  sacred  light.  But  He  does  not  forget. 
That  Light  itself  cannot  drive  the  shadow  from 
Gethsemane,  and  the  cup  has  never  since  been  absent 
from  my  lips.' 

"  Angus  stopped — and  God  watched  over  me ;  for 
He  pitied  me. 

"  I  thought  of  you  and  mother  first,  but  God  etill 
kept  my  will  in  His.  I  wanted  God  to  lead  me  and 
I  asked  Him  to  help  me — and  I  waited. 


i  I* 


n 


i  }i 


i8o        ^7!  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

"  *  Angus,'  I  said  at  last,  '  your  mother  loved  him, 
did  she  not  7 ' 

"  *  Loved  ! '  he  answered,  '  her  pure  heart  knew  no 
other  passion.  My  own  is  but  an  echo.  Behold  I  I 
was  shapcn  in  love.' 

"  •  Then,'  said  I,  '  let  her  that  is  without  love  cast 
the  first  stone  at  her.  If  any  sinning  woman  love, 
she  has  an  advocate  with  the  Father.  Oh,  Angus ! 
Come  to  me  I '  I  cried,  for  I  was  fainting." 


'^- 


Mi 


Her  story  was  finished  now  and  my  daughter 
added  not  a  word.  But  she  arose  and  stood  before 
me,  her  eyes  searching  my  pallid  face  for  a  verdict, 
if  haply  it  might  be  like  her  own.  I  noticed  the 
woman's  tactics  in  her  move,  for  woman's  genius 
makes  its  home  within  her  soul;  she  had  left  my 
arms  that  I  might,  if  I  would,  held  them  out  to  her 
again  and  take  her  back  for  ever.  But  the  arms 
have  their  hinges  in  the  heart,  and  mine  was  tight 
locked  like  a  vica 

"  Margaret,"  I  said  at  last,  and  my  voice  was  like 
the  voice  of  age,  "  you  do  not  mean  that  you  suffered 
this  man's  caresses  after  he  told  you  what  you  have 
just  told  me  ? " 

Sorrow  looked  from  Margaret's  eyes. 

"  Suffered  ? "  she  replied,  "  suffered  ?  I  have  learned 
what  suffering  is,  God  knows,  but  He  knows  it  was 
not  there  I  learned  it.  This  man.  Oh,  father,  I 
love  him — am  I  all  alone  ? " 


A  FATHER'S  CRUCIFIXION 


i8i 


How  strong  is  tho  weakness  of  love  1  There  is  no 
panoply  like  that  which  love  provides,  and  she  who 
bears  it  has  the  wb  ole  axmour  of  God. 

"  Margaret,"  I  pleaded,  "  fou  surely  will  not  ruin 
your  life  and  break  your  mother's  heart  and  mine  by 
any  madness  such  as  this  ? " 

"  Ruin  my  life,  father  ?  what  ruin  can  there  be 
to  the  life  that  loves  and  is  loved  7  I  have  no  life  at 
all  apart  from  him.  It  seems  so  simple.  I  can't  take 
back  my  heart ! " 

"  Perhaps  so,  my  daughter,"  I  replied,  "  perhaps  so. 
I  know  your  love  is  no  fickle  thing.  But,  Margaret, 
you  do  not  propose  to  link  your  life  with  his, 
shadowed  as  you  yourself  declare  it  to  have  been 
from  his  birth?" 

"  Father,  it  is  already  linked.  It  was  not  I  who 
linked  our  lives,  nor  was  it  he;  nor  was  it  both 
together — it  was  God.  Surely  He  wouldn't  have 
let  me  love  and  trust,  if  it  was  wrong.  I  want  you 
to  help  me ;  I  am  all  alone." 

"But  you  do  not  mean,"  I  cried  with  growing 
warmth,  "  that  I,  the  ministar  of  St.  Guthbert's  Eirk, 
New  Jedburgh,  am  to  be  called  upon  to  take  into  my 
family,  and  to  ackpn Pledge  as  my  son,  a  man  who 
cannot  speak  iiir:  father 'e  name,  who  cannot,"  for  I 
was  maddening  fast,  "  Bp"i.k  it  even  to  himself,  for- 
sooth, because  he  ki;ow8  liot  wb^ »;  it  is  ?" 

"  Oh,  father,  do  noi  yreba  tua  sc  ;  I  love  you — and 
I  love  him  too,  and  " — 


iSa       Sr.  CVTHBSRT'S  OP  TUB   WEST 


^\ 


"  Bat  about  our  family  7  "  I  asked  hotlj. 

"  I  forgot  about  families,"  she  sobbed.  "  Oh,  father, 
teach  this  poor  hoaii*  of  mine  to  lore  no  more  and  I 
will  obey  jour  every  wish — bat  it  is  hard  for  lore  to 
serve  two  masters." 

My  heart  was  wrung  by  her  plaintive  voice ;  but 
love  dwells  hard  by  cruelty,  and  my  self-control  was 
going  fast.  Let  those  defend  me  who  have  known 
my  agony. 

"  You  know,  I  suppose,  the  result  that  will  issue 
from  your  madness  ?  You  know  what  it  will  mean 
to  your  future  relations  here  ? "  I  asked  hoarsely,  ex- 
plaining my  threat  by  a  glance  about  tho  room. 

••  Don't  call  it  madness,  father,"  she  replied  plead- 
ingly. "  There  is  no  madness  in  love.  I  cannot  help 
it,  father.  Why  should  I  ?  Surely  Angus  is  the 
same  as  he  was  when  first  I  loved  him.  I  haven't 
learned  anything  new  about  the  soul  of  him, 
father." 

"  But  his  origin  ?     I  interrupted. 

"  But  he  is  good,  father — and  kind — and  true — 
and  he  loves  me." 

It  was  but  a  moment  till  I  was  past  the  bounds 
of  reason.  Disappointment,  pride,  shame,  anger — all 
these  had  their  cruel  way  with  me.  I  am  covered 
with  confusion  as  with  a  garment  while  I  try  to 
record  what  followed,  though  I  could  not  tell  it  all, 
even  if  I  would.  There  is  no  cruelty  like  the  cruelty 
of  love.     For  the  anguished  soul  pours  out  the  viale 


A  FATHER'S  CRUCIFIXION  183 

of  iti  remorse  and  self-reproach  upon  tlie  well-loved 
head,  and  fury  waxes  with  its  shame. 

"  I  want  none  of  your  preaching,"  and  my  voice 
was  coarse  with  anger ;  "  you  are  a  wilful  and  dis- 
obedient child,  and  you  may  as  well  learn  first  as  lost 
who  is  the  master  of  this  house.     Do  you  hear  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  hear — and  my  heart  is  broken.  You  want 
me  to  go  away  and  not  to  see  me  any  more.  And  I 
don't  know  where  to  go." 

She  was  kneeling  now  and  the  tears  were  dropping 
hot  upon  my  hand,  which  she  had  taken  in  both  of 
hers.  "Oh,  father,  when  birdlinga  leave  the  nest, 
surely  God  wants  them  to  go,  because  He  gives  them 
wings.     Father  dear,  oh,  do  not  push  me  out  in  this 

cruel  way.     I  want  to  keep  you  and  Angus  both 

and  mother.     Am  I  really  wrong  ? 

"Father,  you  are  a  preacher  of  the  Everlasting 
Gospel,  and  doesn't  that  say  we  were  all  bom  wrong 
and  need  to  be  born  again?  You  said  only  last 
Sunday  that  if  we're  once  on  the  Rock,  God  forgets 
all  about  the  pit  and  the  miry  clay.  And  you  said 
God  makes  the  past  new — all  new,  and  that  all  the 

redeemed  ones  are  just  the  same  m  His  sight all 

good,  and  with  the  past  away  behind  them.     I  thought 

it  was  beautiful,  because  I  thought  about  Angus and 

it  seemed  just  like  the  Saviour's  way." 

My  heart  was  wrung  with  a  great  desire  to  take 
the  bended  form  unto  myself.  1  half  moved  forward 
to  kif -^   the  lips  of  this  kneeling  priestess  unto  love, 


I ! 


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1 84        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

but  as  I  did  so  the  memory  of  other  lips  that 
had  been  pressed  to  them  rolled  in  upon  me  and 
swept  away  the  better  impulsa  I  faltered  into 
compromise. 

"  Margaret,  you  are  still  my  daughter,  and  I  am 
touched  by  what  you  say.  Let  us  find  common 
ground.  Promise  roe  that  you  will  suspend  judgment 
in  this  matter  for  a  year,  your  promise  meantime 
to  be  revoked,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  we  will 
take  it  up  afresh.  This  will  giye  time  for  sober 
judgment." 

But  her  blanched  face  turned  to  mine,  and  the 
white  lips  spoke  again.  "Oh,  spare  me,  father, 
for  I  cannot — you  know  I  cannot — oh,  father,  pity 

me ! 

My  soul  flamed  with  ungovernable  anger.  I  did 
pity  her,  and  this  it  was  that  stirred  my  cruelty.  For 
my  soul  relapsed  to  barbarous  coarseness,  and  I  said : 

"  Then  choose  between  us — you  can  have  your ," 

and  I  called  him  an  awful  word,  the  foulest  of  all 
words,  whose  very  sound  speaks  the  shame  it  means 
to  tell,  the  curse  of  humanity  hissed  in  its  nauseous 
syllables. 

And  more — but  how  can  I  write  it  down !  I  did 
not  strike  her — but  I  thrust  her  from  me ;  I  laid  my 
coward  hand  upon  her  shoulder — not  in  violence  nor 
heavily,  but  eternal  menace  was  in  it  For  I  pushed 
her  from  me,  crying  brutally:"  Quote  me  another 
Scripture.     Have  you   not  chosen   the   better  t^rt  ? 


A  FATHER'S  CRUCIFIXION 


i8S 


There  is  the  door  which  his  shadow  first  accursed — 
you  see  the  door  ? "  and  I  hurled  the  poisoned  word 
at  her  again. 

She  looked  at  me  hut  once — as  one,  suddenly 
awakening,  looks  at  her  assassin.  Then  she  went  out, 
a  lover  as  white  as  snow. 


I  H 


*W 


XXI 


THB   OLD   PRBCENTOR'S   NEW   BONO 

J^S  a  stream  emerges  from  its  forest  tunnel,  eluding 
the  embrace  of  tangled  shadows,  swiftly  gliding 
from  sombre  swamps  and  hurrying  towards  the  sunlit 
plain,  Its  phantom  weeds  of  widowhood  exchanged  for 
Its  bridal  robe  of  light;  so  doth  this  tale  of  mine 
glide  forth  from  the  sable  shadows  which  garrison  the 
chapter  it  has  left  behind. 

No  man  loves  to  linger  by  hia  scaffold,  though  it 
be  cheated  of  its  last  adornment,  and  though  no  eye 
behold  its  grinning  outUne  but  his  own.  For  there 
are  shadowy  scaffolds,  and  invisible  executioners 
sittmg  at  our  own  boards  and  eating  of  our  own 
bread,  discernibl  only  in  a  glass.  Our  own  sheriffs 
and  executioners  are  we  all 

Swift  in  the  wake  of  sorrow  came  the  unromantic 
form  of  toa  Th.'  God  I  Work  is  sorrow's  cure, 
Its  hands  like  the  hands  of  an  enemy,  but  its  voice 
the  voice  of  an  Eternal  Friend.  For  duty  is  God's 
midwife,  sent  to  deUver  the  soul  that  travails  in  its 
anguish. 

is« 


THE  OLD  PRECENn   «  ' ,  NEW  SONG    187 


It  was  but  the  day  after  Margaret  had  passed  from 
out  my  door,  girding  it  as  she  went  with  crape,  in- 
visible to  other  eyes,  that  I  was  called  to  Archie 
M'Cormack's  house.  The  day  was  bright  and  clear, 
but  I  knew  it  not — for  in  this  doth  sorrow  make  us 
like  to  God,  that  then  the  darkness  and  the  light  are 
both  alike. 

For  some  months  past,  my  old  precentor  had  been 
failing  fast  The  doctor  said  it  was  his  heart,  but 
none  of  us  believed  it ;  for  his  heart  had  grown  larger, 
stronger,  happier  with  every  passing  year.  Its  outer 
life  might  perish  if  it  would,  but  its  inner  life  was 
renewed  day  by  day.  Indeed,  his  soul's  second 
harvest  seemed  to  take  the  form  of  cheerfulness,  the 
scantiest  crop  of  all  in  the  stern  seasons  of  his  earlier 
life.  Even  merriment  sought  to  bloom  before  the 
frost  should  come. 

The  very  day  before  Margaret  and  I  began  our 
life's  Lenten  season,  I  had  been  to  see  h^'m,  little 
thinking  that  my  next  vbit  was  to  be  the  last.  My 
own  heart  was  full  of  that  joy  whose  overflow 
ilargaret  had  entrusted  to  its  care — which  is  a  great 
gift  to  a  minister,  this  gift  of  gladness,  seeking  as  he 
does  t{  irrigate  the  thirsty  plains  of  life  about  him. 

"  How  is  my  precentor  to-day  ? "  I  asked  as  I  sat 
down  at  the  blazing  hearth.  He  was  lying  on  the 
couch,  the  fourth  gradation — the  field,  the  verandah, 
the  room,  the  couch,  the  bed,  the  grave — thus  the 
promotion  runs  ! 


; 


I' 


; 


i88        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 

"  I'm  by  or'nar  glad  to  see  ye,"  he  replied  evasively, 
"  The  auld  freena  are  the  best." 

"That's  good,  Archie,  the  o.d  friends  are  glad  to 
hear  it.  They  hear  it  seldom  from  Scottish  lips, 
however  hopefully  they  suspect  it." 

"We're  nae  muckle  given  to  compliment«--I'll 
grant  ye  that.  But  whiles  we  think ;  an'  whiles  we 
speak— an'  whiles  we  wunna.  But  I'm  no'  backward 
in  tellin'  a  man  gin  I  care  for  him.  Noo,  I  was 
sayin'  to  the  wife  this  verra  day  that  yon  man  ye 
brocht  frae  Montreal  last  simmer  was  like  eneuch  a 
graun*  preacher— I'm  no'  disputin'  that,  mind  ye.  But 
I  was  sayin'  to  the  wife  as  hoo  I  likit  yirsel'  fully 
mair  nor  him." 

I  smUed  with  pleasure,  for  the  process  was  an 
interesting  one.  Bouquets  look  strange  in  these 
rough  Scottish  hands— but  their  fragrance  is  the 
sweeter  for  all  that. 

"  I  understand,  Archie.  You  do  not  often  pay  a 
compliment,  but  I  know  its  sincerity  when  it  comes, 
and  I  appreciate  it  all  the  same." 

He  had  not  finished,  for  he  felt  he  had  gone  too 
far. 

"  Ay,  that's  what  I  was  sayin'  to  the  wife.  I  likit 
yirsel' fuUy  better  nor  him— it's  different,  ye  see;  I'm 
gettin'  kind  o'  used  to  ye,  ye  ken ! " 

This  made  his  tribute  morally  complete.  Oh, 
thou  Scotchman !  Thou  canst  not  withhold  a  tincture 
of  lemon  from  the  sweetest  cup ! 


'H' 


THE  OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG     189 

"But  how  is  my  precentor  to-day?"  I  renewed, 
fearful  of  additional  repairs  to  his  eulogy. 

"  Weel,  I'm  no'  complainin* — an'  I'm  no'  boastin' ; 
but  there's  mony  a  yin  waur.  I'm  no'  sufferin'  pain 
to  speak  0'.  I  can  sleep  at  nicht,  an'  I  tak'  ma 
parritch,  an'  I  hae  ma  faculties — an'  I'm  in  God's 
hauns,"  he  said,  the  climax  coming  with  unconsciouB 
power. 

"  There's  no  better  bulletin  than  that,"  I  responded. 
"  I  see  you  still  take  your  smoke,  Archie,"  I  added 
cheerfully,  nodding  towards  an  ancient  trusty  pipe 
which  enjoyed  its  brief  respite  on  a  chair,  long  his 
familiar  friend,  and  noticeably  breathing  out  its  loyalty 
where  it  lay. 

"  Ou  ay,  I  dinna  lack  for  ony  o'  the  needcessities 
o'  life,  thank  God,"  he  replied  gratefully,  and  with 
utter  seriousness. 

"  What  a  blessing  that  you  a.e  free  from  pain,"  I 
hurriedly  remarked ;  for  the  mouth,  like  a  capricious 
steed,  is  more  easily  controlled  when  it  is  in  motion. 

"Ay,  that's  a  greater  blessin'.  I've  been  un- 
common free  frae  pain.  A  fortnight  syne,  I  had  a 
vena  worritsoma  feelin'  in  ma  innerts — a  kind  0' 
colic,  I'm  jalousin'.  Sandy  Grant  said  as  how  whusky 
wi'  a  little  sulphur  was  gey  guid.  I  tell't  him  I  never 
had  nowt  to  dae  wi'  sulphur  i'  my  life,  an'  I  wudna 
begin  to  bother  wi't  noo;"  and  Archie  lifted  his 
eyebrows,  adjusted  his  night-cap,  and  turned  upon  me 
a  very  solemn  smile. 


Ill 


N 


t  n         -"^ 


!i^ 


ii 


I 


190        ST.  CUTHBERT*  S  OF  THE    WEST 

He  (loubtlesB  saw  by  my  face  that  I  approv'^d  his 
caution,  for  I  secretly  believed  that  he  was  right. 
Thus  confirmed,  he  lay  meditating  for  a  time,  but  it 
was  soon  made  evident  that  his  thoughts  had  not 
wandered  far  from  the  matter  in  hand. 

"  Ay,  sulphur's  nae  improvement  to  whusky,"  he 
slowly  averred  at  length ;  "  forbye,  I  was  richt  I  was 
richt  frae  a  medeecinal  standpoint,  ye  ken.  The 
verra  next  day  ma  doctor  ordered  me  to  tak'  a  little 
whusky  for  the  pain  I  tell't  ye  o'.  An'  I  did :  I  took 
it  afore  he  tell't  me." 

"And  it  did  you  good,  Archie?"  I  asked  indul- 
gently. 

"Guid?"  replied  Archie,  in  a  tone  of  much  re- 
proach. Then  he  said  no  more,  scorning  to  demon- 
strate an  axiom.  But  be  was  not  through  with  the 
subject     The  moral  had  still  to  be  pointed. 

"  Is't  no'  wonr  erfu',  minister,  the  law  0'  compensa- 
tion that  oor  Cr'^a+ior  gies  us,  to  reach  a'  through  oor 
lives? 

"Pain  has  it  t  side,  ye  ken.  An'  when  we 
say  as  hoo  it ..  -  ill  wind  that  blaws  naebod  v  guid, 
we're  acknowledgin'  the  lo>e  0'  the  Almichty.  Ilka 
cloud  has  aye  its  siller  linin'.  Noo,  for  instance,  it 
was  a  fearfu'  pain  I  took — but  the  ithor  that  I  took 
to  cure  it — it  was  Scotch,"  and  Archie  drew  a  gentle 
sigh,  half  of  piety  and  half  of  reminiscence. 


When  next  I  turned  my  steps  towards  Archie's 


THE  OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG    191 

door,  though  only  two  short  days  had  fled,  all  life 
had  changed  to  me  and  darkness  hung  about  me  like 
a  pall.  Upon  which  change  I  was  bitterly  reflecting 
when  I  was  interrupted  by  a  message  that  Archie 
was  taken  somewhat  worse  and  not  expected  to  live 
longer  than  through  the  night  And  I  could  not 
but  be  glad  of  this  summons  from  my  own  life's 
tragedy,  that  I  might  share  another'a  It  is  God's 
blessed  way.  The  balm  for  secret  sorrow  is  in  the 
bosom  of  another  burden,  unselfishly  assumed ;  and 
the  Cyrenian  of  every  age  hath  this  for  his  hire, 
that,  while  he  bends  beneath  another's  cross,  he  is 
disburdened  of  his  own. 

I  found  my  old  precentor  weak,  and  failing 
fast,  but  "  verra  composed,"  as  we  say  in  New 
Jedburgh. 

He  welcomed  me  with  a  gentle  smile. 

"  Yell  pray  wi'  me,"  he  said  gravely ;  "  but  it'll  no' 
be  the  closin'  prayer.  I'm  wearin'  awa  fast,  but  I'll 
no'  leave  ye  till  the  morn,  I'm  dootin'.  Pit  up  a  bit 
prayer  noo — but  there's  ae  thing — dinna  mind  the 
Maister  o'  His  promise  to  come  again  an'  receive 
me  till  Himsel' — no'  that  it  isna  a  gowden  word; 
but  I  want  it  keepit  till  the  last,  an'  it's  the  last 
word  I  want  to  hear.  Speak  it  to  me  when  I  hear 
the  surge.  That'll  gie  Him  time  eneuch,  for  He'll 
no'  be  far  awa.  An'  I  want  to  hear  it  aboon  the 
billow&     Noo  pit  up  yir  prayer." 

Short   and   simple   were   our    petitions;    for   the 


,Ji 


\i 


i 

f 

: 


J 
i 


li 


192       ST.  CUTHBERTS  OF  THE   WEST 

I'rayer  of  little  children  is  best  for  those  who  are 
about  to  euter  into  tlie  kingdom  of  God. 

After  we  had  finished,  my  e/ea,  unknown  to  him, 
were  long  fixed  on  Archie's  face.  For  a  strange 
interest  centres  about  those  whos  loins  are  girded 
for  long  journeys;  and  I  have  never  outgrown  the 
boyish  awe  with  which  I  witnessed  the  loosening  of 
the  ropes  that  held  aerial  travellers  to  the  earth 
I  have  seen  some  scores  of  persons  die — 

"  By  many  a  «leathbcd  I  havB  been 
Aud  mauy  a  siuuer'a  parting  seen," 

but  the  awful  tragedy  is  ever  new,  and  familiarity 
breeds  increasing  reverence.  Death  is  a  hero  to  his 
valet. 

"  You  are  not  afraid,  Archie  ? "  I  said  at  length — 
the  old  question  that  springs,  not  to  the  dying,  but 
to  the  living  lips. 

"Afeart!"  said  Archie;  "what  wad  I  be  afeart 
.  .  ? " 

"  You  are  not  afraid  to  meet  your  Lord  ? "  I  an- 
swered, inwardly  reproaching  r     elf  for  the  words. 

"  Afeart ! "  repeated  the  c  ^  ^g  man ;  "  afeart  to 
meet  ma  Lord  ?  Why  should  I  be  feart  to  meet  a 
Man  that  died  for  me  ? " 

I  inwardly  blessed  him  for  the  great  reply,  and 
engaged  its  unanswerable  arg  ment  for  my  next 
Sabbath's  sermon.     No  man  dieth  urto  himself. 

"  Wull   ye  dae   something   for  me  ' "  said  Archie 


THE  OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG 


»93 


iuddenlj.     "Wall  yo  write  to  a   man   I  kont  laiig 
pyne  ? " 

"  Certainly,"  paid  I.  "  Who  is  the  man.  Archie  ? " 
"  I'll  Lc':  ye,  gin  ma  hairt  hauda  guid  a  mecnit. 
It'8  Andra  Mathieaon — an'  he  lives  in  Ran  Franciwo. 
Him  an'  me  gaed  to  the  achule  thcgithcr  in  the  Auld 
Country,  an'  I  hadna  seen  him  for  nigh  fifty  your  till 
last  Can'lemas  o  twalmonth,  when  I  gaed  to  F  n 
Franciflco  for  ma  health.  He's  awfu'  rich.  lie  lives 
in  a  graun'  hoose,  an*  he  has  a  coachman  wi'  yin  fi' 
thae  coats  wi'  buttons.  But  I  gaed  to  see  him,  an'  I 
needna  hae  been  sae  feart,  for  he  minded  on  me,  an' 
he  wadna  hear  o'  me  bidin'  at  the  taivern,  .n'  lie 
took  me  to  his  graun'  hoose,  an'  he  was  ower  guid 
Q        to  a  plain  cratur  like  me. 

"  Weel,  ae  momin'  we  was  sittin'  haein'  oor  crack 
aboot  the  auld  days,  an'  he  schule,  an'  the  sheep  we 
herded  thegither  on  the  Ettrick  hills.  But  oor  crack 
aye  harkit  back  to  the  kirk  an'  the  minister  an'  the 
catechism,  an*  a'  thae  deeper  thinj^  c  auld  lang 
syne.      Ho  said  as   hoo  he   had  ^an«  ^..:   bye  thae 

things,  livin'  amang  the  stour  o'  a'  his  ?    ar cut  he 

remarkit  that  he  aften  thocht  o'  tht    aul  \  ways,  an' 
vhe  auld  tunes,  an'  the   mini.^ter   wi'  or,   an' 

bands ;  an'  he  said  he  was  fair  starvin"  .  tlni 

or  a  paraphrase.     They  dinna  sing  then.        -imeriky. 
An'  I  lilted  yin  till  him — we  was  lookin     mt  oot  at 
the  Gowden  Gate,  an'  it  lookit  like  the  en       1  water 
ma  een  11  sune  see." 
7 


f  i 


til 


IE  I 


m 


it 

r 


•94      sr  cuthbert's  of  the  weut 

Archio  itoj.petl.  though  appurontly  but  little 
KxrmuHted.  HIh  eyea  seomed  lloodod  witJj  tender 
'iiomories  of  tliat  luomontoue  hutir  on  the  fur  disUnt 
rar.ific  CouHt. 

"Wh.it  psahn  did  you  eiiig?"  I  ventured, 
prcsL'iitly. 

"  It  waa  n  paraphnae,"  he  answered,  the  smilu  still 
ui>on  his  face.     "  It  was  the  twenty-sixth- 

•  IIo  I  JO  th.it  tJiirtt,  approach  tho  spring 
Whero  living  watoni  flow'— 

an'  Andra  grat  like  a  bairn — 

'"I  haena  heard  it  sin'  I  ran  barefit  aboot  the 
hills,'  he  said,  an'  he  wad  hao  me  sing  the  lines 
ower  again — 

•How  long  to  itreama  of  false  delight 
Will  je  iu  crowds  repair  I' 

an'  I'm  no'  worthy.  I  ken.  but  I  pit  up  a  bit  prayer 
wi'  him— ye  maunna  think  I'm  boastin'.  sir,  but  I 
brocht  him  to  Christ,  an'  when  I  think  on't  noo, 
it's  lichtsorae,  an'  I'm  minded  o'  that  simmer  sun 
on  the  Gowden  Gate.  Ye'll  write  to  him  an'  tell 
him  we'll  sing  a  psalm  thegither  yet." 

My  promise  given  and  Andrew  Mathieson's  address 
taken,  Archie  lay  silent  for  a  little  time.  Swift 
glances  at  myself,  swiftly  withdrawn,  denoted  his 
desire  to  say  something  more.  It  came  at  length, 
and  with  unmistakable  directness. 


^'^m.: 


%"^i«tfr^ 


T//E  OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG     195 

"  I'm  dnotin'  I've  been  wrang ;  inebbe  I  w  .« 
'  ri^'htflous  overn.uch.' " 

"What  ifl  it,  Archi  •  "  I  grn!  fl.Mthin«ly.  "Somp 
sin  ?  Or  pnrao  mifituko  •  \  t'.ie  doyn  that  are 
yone  7 " 

"  I'm  no*  Bayin'  it  wa«'  thn  yin  or  the  ithor,"  replied 
the  old  precentor,  a  familiar  frosty  flavour  in  hia 
voice ;  "  if  it  v.uh.  I'll  no'  coufewm  it  to  ony  yin 
but  Gi  -  lut  I'm  mifidootin'  I  w.im  owor  hard  on 
the  hynies." 

"What  hymnR,  Archie?"  I  asked,  Bcfking  only  to 
make  easier  hiH  acknowledgment  of  error,  ever 
difficult  to  Scottish  lips.  For,  if  he  truth  wt^ro  told, 
Scotchmen  secretly  divide  sins  int.<  three  clap.sce,  those 
of  omiBsion,  of  commission,  and  of  admifiBion. 

"  Ye  ken  fine,"  ho  made  reply ;  "  div  ye  no'  mind 
hoo  Margaret  an'  Angus  Straoban  compeared  ifove 
the  kirk  session  xvi'  their  prayer  for  man-made 
hymes  i'  the  kirk  ?  " 

"Yes,  Archie,  I  rememl'or — the  session  denied 
their  request." 

Ah  me,  I  thought,  how  much  has  befallen  Margaret 
and  Margaret's  father  since  that  night ! 

•Ay,  I  ken  that;  an'  I'm  no'  regrcttin' — but  I'm 
dootin'  I  was  ower  hard  on  the  hymes.  My  epeerit 
was  aye  ower  fiery  for  an  elder.  But  King  Dauvit 
himsel'  was  mair  fearsome  than  me  wi'  blasphemers — 
no'  to  ca'  Margaret  yin;  but  I'm  mindin'  that  the 
Maister    aye    took    auither    way,    a    better    yin,   I'm 


•9«       ST.  CUTUBERZS  OS  THE   WEST 

dooHn'.     M-  I-m  feart  I  was  maJr  like  D.uvit.  tor 
a  I'd  raither  be  like  the  Maister." 

"You  have  the  right  of  it,  Archie;  He  ehowed  «. 
tHe  more  excellent  way." 

thought,  "Ive  my  misgivio',  aboot  wh.  wrote  thae 
hjmes.  It  waa-a  the  deeril,  an'  it  waena  Watt., 
an  It  waena  y„n  great  Methody  body;  they  set  them 
doon,  nae  doot_but  wha  atarted  them!  I'm  «ur 
dootm  they  had  their  riee  .aang  the  hilla,  the  .am. 
wlianr  Daunt  saw  the  glory  o'  God." 
"  Above  the  hills  of  time,"  I  added  softly 
-An'  what's  mair,  it  kind  o'  came  to  me  that  a 

.''?h»  r.  •  '"  .'■  P™^"'  ''  '"'■'•    -^"'  y»"  p™y« 

.'.  he  fark  IS  no'  mspired.  That  is,  no'  like  Dauvif. 
psatas-but  it's  upUftin'  for  a'  that.  An'  I'm  thinldn' 
that  mebbe  .ts  nae  waur  to  lilt  a   prayer   than  to 

•Let  nse  to  Thy  bosom  fly,' 

an^  I'm  dootin'  we   micht  dae  waur  than  jine  wi' 

"There  is  no  more  fitting  prayer  for  such  an  hour 
.3  the  I  responded,  thinking  it  meet  to  incUne  hi, 
thoughts  towards  the  encircUng  glow  with  which  the 
last  peat  mornmg  wae  already  iUumining  his  face. 

But  Archie  etUl  pursued  his  line  of  thought.  No 
•uoh  great  concession  as  this  was  to  be  left  undefined- 


THE  OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG    197 

thia  codicil  to  his  whole  life's  will  and  testament  must 
be  explained. 

"  I  ken  the  hymes  never  had  what  I  micht  ca'  a 
fair  chance  wi'  me.  My  faither  cudna  thole  them, 
an'  he  cudna  bide  ony  ither  body  to  thole  them.  He 
aye  said  the  heather  wasna  dry  yet  wi'  the  Cove- 
nanters' bluid.  My  ain  girlie,  wee  Kirsty — she  likit 
them  fine,  but  I  forbade  her.  This  was  the  way  it 
cam  aboot — div  ye  mind  the  year  o*  the  Exposeetion 
in  Paris  ?  Weel,  me  an'  Kirsty's  mither  took  a  jaunt 
'd'  gaed  till't.  We  was  ower  three  weeks  amang 
thae  foreign  fowk,  wi'  nae  parritch  an'  nae  psalm. 
We  gaed  frae  Paris  to  the  auld  hame  in  Ettrick,  an' 
'twas  like  gae'n  to  Abraham's  bosom  frae  the  ither 
place.  Weel,  the  first  Sabbath  day,  we  gaed  to  the 
auld  Scotch  Kirk,  and  we  were  starvin'  for  the  bread 
o'life. 

"  Naething  had  we  had  but  the  bit  sweeties  0'  the 
English  kirk  near  by,  wi'  their  confections — an'  ance 
we  gaed  to  the  Catholic,  but  it  was  a  holiday.  Weel, 
as  I  was  sayin",  we  gaed  to  the  Ettrick  kirk,  an'  the 
minister  came  into  the  pulpit  wi'  his  goo.  an'  bands 
— fair  graun'  it  was. 

" '  Let  us  worship  God,'  he  said,  an'  'twas  like  the 
click  o'  the  gate  at  hame.     Then  he  gied  oot  a  psalm — 

'So  they  from  strength  unwearied  go 
Still  forward  unto  strength.' 


ll 
i 

I 


'  The  precentor  was  naething  graun'.    I  have  heard 


•  98        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

better  in  St.  CuthberfB.  Ho  was  oot  mebbe  a  quarter 
o'  a  b.>.it  in  his  time,  but  the  auld  words  had  their 
power;  'twas  like  as  if  1  hoard  my  mither's  voic» 
again,  an'  1  cu.hia  sing  for  grcetin',  but  my  hairt  aye 
keepit  time,  an'  I  resolved  then  no'  to  let  Kirsty  sing 
the  hymes  ony  mair— but  I'm  misdootiu'  I've  boen 
wranf?." 

Jiackward  rolled  the  night  and  onward  rolled  the 
day  as  we  kept  our  vigil  by  the  dying  bed.  Ever 
solemn  hour,  r.l.carsal  of  a  darker  yet  to  be !  For 
that  same  mystery  shall  wrap  every  watcher's  heart, 
and  others  then  shall  stand  by  the  fallen  sentinels. 

Archie  eluiubered  and  waked  by  turns.  We  were 
just  beginning  to  feel  the  approach  of  the  magnetic 
dawn  when  he  awoke  from  an  hour's  sleep. 

"The  nicht's  near  gane,"  he  said,  "an'  I'll  sleep 
nae  mair ;  for  I  aye  likit  to  greet  the  mornin'  licht" 

We  gathered  closer,  the  old  childish  instinct  which 
drove  us  to  the  wharfs  very  edge  when  the  sails  wore 
being  hoisted  and  the  anchor  weighed. 

He  beckoned  me  closer,  and  I  bent  to  catch  his 
words. 

"  Ye  micht  gie  thae  thochts  o*  mine  to  the  session 
gin  the  maitter  comes  up  again— aboot  the  hymes, 
ye  ken,  aboot  hoo  they  micht  be  made  intil  a 
prayer." 

I  silently  gave  the  promise. 

"  An'  mair— I  dinna  forbid  ye  to  sing  a  bit  hyme 
at  the  funeral     Let  Wiillie  Allison  lilt  the  tune,  for 


THE  OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG     199 

he  aye  keopa  the  time.     Yon  Methody'a  bymo  wad 
dae — 

'  Hide  mo,  oh,  luy  Saviour,  hide. 
Till  the  storm  of  life  ia  pa-st,' 

for  the  wind  '11  be  doon  then,  I'm  hopiu'." 

"  The  fowk  '11  think  it  strange,  for  they  a'  ken  my 
convictions,  sae  yo'd  better  closu  \vi'  a  paraphrase — 

'Tlieri  will  He  own  His  Horvant'fl  name 
Hefore  His  Fathor'a  f.KJC.' 

That  wad  dae  fine,  for  it's  a'  o'  grace  thegithcr." 

Arcbio  lay  silent  for  a  time,  breathing  heavily,  the 
tumult  of  the  last  great  conflict  blending  every 
moment  with  the  peace  of  the  last  great  surrender. 
An  instant  later,  the  dying  face  acmed  lightened, 
like  one  who  descries  the  lights  of  home. 

"  I  canna  juist  mind  the  words ;  is  it  the  outgoin' 
0'  the  morniu'  He  makes  to  rejoice  ? " 

"  And  the  evening,"  I  said  quickly  ;  "  the  evening 
too,  Archie." 

"  Ay,"  he  answered  peacefully ;  "  I  thocht  He 
wadua  forget  the  gloamin*.  Ay,  mair  the  eveniu' 
than  the  uioruiu',  I'm  thinkin'." 

His  face  was  radiant  now,  for  th(,  morning  light 
had  passed  us  watchers  by,  its  glory  resting  on  the 
face  that  loved  to  greet  it. 

"  Haud  mia  haun',  guid-wife,"  his  voice  upborne  by 
the  buoyancy  of  death.  "  I'm  slippin'  fast  into  the 
licht.     I  see  what  they  ca'  the  gates  0'  deith.     The 


:{ 


m" 


aoo        Sr.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 

licht  has  found  them  oot.  Thej've  been  sair  maligned, 
I'm  thinkin*.  The  pulpit  has  misca'd  them,  but  the 
believer's  deein'  lips  can  ca'  them  fair.  They're  the 
gates  o'  deith,  nae  doot,  but  the  Maister  hauda  the 
keys." 

We  stood  as  close  to  the  old  precentor  as  we  might, 
but  we  were  in  the  shadow  still.  For  death  seldom 
shares  his  surprises  with  the  alien,  and  is  selfish  with 
his  secret  luxuries. 

"  Hark  ye  I "  the  dying  man  suddenly  cried.  "  Div 
ye  no'  hear  the  sang  ?  It's  graun'  ayont  the  thocht  o' 
man.  They're  a'  in  white,  an'  it's  'Martyrdom'  is 
the  tune.  Wha's  leadin'  them?  I  see  Him  fine; 
it's  Him  wha  made  the  sang  itsel'.  It's  Him  wha's 
leadin'  them.  Div  ye  no' ken  -^hat  they're  singin'? 
It's  the  new  sang,  the  sang  o'  Moses  an'  the  Lamb. 
An'  hark  ye  I  it's  the  same  as  the  paalm  my  mither 
taught  me.     I  canna  tell  the  yin  frae  the  ither." 

And  the  old  precentor  hurried  on  to  join  the  choir 
invisible. 


XXII 


■; 


THE    MILLS   OF    THE    GODS 


"R^ARGAEET  was  home  again.  She  had  been  gone 
-*''■*•  from  us  two  immeasurable  days.  It  waa  Mr. 
Blake  who  rang  the  bell,  for  it  was  his  house  had 
sheltered  her  when  my  cruel  anger  drove  her  from 
my  own.  Need  and  sorrow  never  turned  to  him  in 
vain. 

When  the  door  was  opened,  Margaret  stood  before 
it  alone.  Her  mother  it  was  who  opened  unto  her, 
for  this  is  woman's  oldest  and  holiest  avocation,  door- 
keeper unto  wandering  feet.  In  all  His  delicate 
missions  woman  is  God's  deputy. 

Through  all  my  narrative  of  this  sad  affair  I  ht.ve 
said  but  little  of  Margaret's  motner,  but  I  know  my 
readers  h  ^  discerned  her  presence  amid  it  all,  as 
one  discer.  a  brooding  mountain  through  the  mist. 
The  great  background  of  every  tragedy  is  a  woman's 
stately  sorrow. 

I  had  been  visiting  the  sick,  far  more  for  my  sake 
than  for  theirs,  and  was  not  home  when  Margaret 
returned.     But  a  nameless    fragrance  greeted  me  at 

Ml 


»i^mmmtmmtm 


232 


ST  CUTHBERTS  OF  THE   WEST 


the  door,  and  in  ray  Btudy  I  found  Margaret  in  her 
mother's  arms.  The  latter  quietly  withdrew,  and  the 
compact  between  father  and  daughter  was  soon  com- 
plete. It  was  of  mutual  surrender,  wherein  is  mutual 
peace.  Margaret's  only  word  was  that  she  could  not 
give  her  father  up — nor  Angus — that  I  must  say 
nothing  more  about  her  love  and  that  we  must  wait 
— together.  Which  was  all  sweet  enough  to  me,  for 
she  was  mine  again,  and  our  manse  light  had  been 
rekindled. 

For  the  rest,  I  was  willing  to  wait, — on  which,  after 
all,  hangs  the  reality  of  all  joy  or  sorrow.  Every 
grief  hath  that  opportunity  of  cure ;  every  joy  that 
peril  of  vicissitude.  Till  time  hath  ceased  from  her 
travail,  no  man  can  tell  her  offspring's  sex,  whether  it 
be  rugged  caro,  or  sweet  and  tender  joy. 

Meantime,  Margaret  nestled  again  within  the  old 
tender  place,  and  we  both  struggled  to  nourish  our 
phantom  joy.  Counterfeit  though  we  both  discerned 
it,  yet  it  passed  vmchallenged  between  us,  and  at  least 
kept  our  souls'  commerce  from  decay.  Counterfeit  I 
have  called  it,  f;r  the  tenure  of  another's  love  was 
upon  her ;  and  her  stay  with  us  was  like  that  of  a 
sailor  lad  who  is  for  a  time  ashore,  waiting  for  the 
tardy  tide. 

The  ordination  Sab'oath  was  aglow  with  holy  light 
God  surely  loves  Presbyterian  high  days,  for  they  are 
nearly  always   beautiful.     St.    Cuthbert's  was    filled 


THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS" 


203 


long  before  eleven  with  a  reverent  and  expectant  con- 
gregation. Five  new  elders  had  been  elected,  three 
of  them  their  father'^  successors,  for  this  was  a  com- 
mon custom  in  New  Jedbu^h,  and  apostolic  succession 
in  disguise  was  in  high  favour  amongst  us.  Another 
was  a  man  of  seventy  or  more,  for  every  ordination 
must  recognise  the  stalwarts  whose  days  of  activity 
were  past,  but  whose  time  for  honour  was  at  hand. 
The  remaining  elder-elect  was  Angus  Strachan.  His 
choice  by  the  congregation  had  been  unanimous  and 
cordial  His  examination  by  the  session  had  resulted 
in  hearty  confirmation.  Our  manse  tragpidy  was 
unknown  to  any  of  the  elders  except  Mr.  Blake,  who 
preserved  complete  silence  throughout  the  interview. 
The  ordeal  was  painful  beyond  words  to  me — but  it 
was  over,  and  Angus  sat  in  the  front  pew  with  the 
other  four,  awaiting  ordination  to  their  sacred  office. 

We  had  sung  the  psalm  which  from  time  immemo- 
rial Piesbyterian  ministers  have  announced  on  all 
ecclesiastical  occasions,  the  102nd  Psalm,  the  second 
vci  .^n,  trom  the  thirteenth  verse,  reading  over  again, 
as  tneir  habit  is,  the  first  two  lines — 

"Thou  shalt  arise,  and  mercy  yet 
Thou  to  mount  Sion  shalt  extend ; " 

the  venerable  Dr.  IngKs  of  Mo£fat  had  preached  the 
eermon  from  the  te.it — "  Feed  the  flock  of  God 
which  is  among  you,"  and  the  elders-elect  took  their 
places  before  the  pulpit. 


I 
I   I 

nj 

1 1 


304 


ST.  CUTH BERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 


I  AcldroHsod  them  in  what  I  consiflorod  fitting  terint 
rocttlling  tho  gront  traditions  of  tho  churcli  they  wer« 
calletl  to  serve,  and  the  noblo  labours  of  the  godly  men 
whiw^  mantles  had  now  fallen  upon  themselvoi.  I 
referred  t<i  our  precious  legacy,  bequeathed  to  ub 
from  the  hiindfl  of  Covenanters,  and  a  reverent  bush 
throughout  tho  whole  congregation  applatidod  the 
TiamPB  of  UenwicU  and  Peden  and  Cameron,  as  they 
fell  from  my  lips. 

Then  all  the  elders  took  their  places  beBido  me,  for 
the  act  of  ordination  was  about  to  be  performed. 
TluB  consiBted  of  prayer  and  the  laying  on  of  hands 

not  of   the  minister's  hands  alone,  for  we  in  St. 

Cuthbert's  adhered  to  the  ancient  Scottish  mode  of 
ordination  by  the  laying  on  of  the  hands  of  the  entire 

PCBsion. 

The  candidates  kneeled  before  us,  Angus  on  my 
right,  having  changed  his  place  for  some  unapparent 
reason,  soon  to  be  abundantly  revealed.  The  hands 
first  outstretched  towards  his  bended  head  were  those 
of  Mr.  Blake.  Whereupon  an  awful  thing  befell  us ; 
for  ♦^he  solemn  stillness  of  the  kirk  was  broken  by  the 
ringing  of  a  voice  aflame  with  passion — "Take  back 
your  hand  —  touch  not  a  hair  of  my  head.  Go 
cleanse  your  hand;  go  purify  your  heart — they  are 
both  polluted.     Whited  sepulchre,  give  up  your  dead 

let  the   rotting  memories   walk   forth.     Go   wash 

another's  blood  from  your  guilty  soul  before  you  dare 
to  serve  at  God's  altar  I " 


"  r/fE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS''  305 

Tlie  trrmblinf?  object  of  thii  outburat  sbrank  bfwsk 
from  before  it  The  knwlin«  cvinflidatefl  Iwwed  hmer. 
I  myfielf  stood  m  one  in  a  f«'Mrful  dream,  while  th" 
horror-stricken  i^ople  half  roflo  within  th.-ir  pewH,  beud- 
Ii.g  forward  as  they  KR7-e<l  at  the  BacriioK'"""    '-"""• 

Angns  turned  and  Wked  unflinnhingly  into  Uinir 
facoH.  I  feared  he  was  about  to  Bpeak  again  an*.  I 
raiHod  my  hand  to  signify  forbid.lal— but  he  saw  it 
not,   and    my    inward    protest    yielded    to    his    fiery 

porposa 

"Ay,  you  may  well    look,"  ho    cried  to  the  awe- 
struck worshippers.     "  Ood  knows  I  had  1,  -t  meant  to 
do  this  thing  or  to  speak  thcHe  words.      I  came  hero 
with   the   honest  purjjose   to  aflsunie   the  vows  that 
should  for  ever  bind  me  to  iris  service.    My  heart  was 
honest  before  God ;  but  when  I  felt  tlie  approach  of 
Ihos^  guUty  hands  it  was  beyond  my  power  to  endure 
their  touch.     Nor  should  I  feel  shame  for  what  I  have 
dona     You  remember  the  scourge  of  knotted  cords 
and  the  holy  temple.      Is  it  wrong  that  I  too  should 
now  seek   to  drive   forth  this  unworthy  man?     He 
stands  unmasked  before  you.     You  know  not  who  be 
Ie  !     He  is  my  father,  and  we  share  our  shame  U)- 
gether !     Anotlier  shares  it  with  her  God  where  the 
Ettrick  water  hears  her  prayer.     And  this  ia  the  man 
whose  Ijande  would  con^'cy  the  grace  of  God ! " 

He  stopped;  and  the  blanched  faces  before  him 
gave  back  a  voice,  half  crv,  half  sob,  anguish  rending 
every  heart.     They  were  a  proud  folk  in  St.  Cuth- 


I  » 


«o6        Sr.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

bcrt's ;  besides,  no  man  of  all  the  elders  waa  bo  dear 
to  them  08  Mr.  Blake,  hia  piety  and  philanthropy  u 
long  tried  and  proved.  Although  we  know  it  not, 
there  is  no  uBset  held  more  dear  than  the  solvency  of 
a  man  in  whom  wo  vest  the  precious  sa'-'ngs  of  our 
confidence. 

Every  oye  and  heart  seemed  turned  towards  the 
man  so  fiercely  accused,  silently  entreating  him  to 
relieve  the  cruel  tension. 

None  doubted  that  his  swift  denial  would  confirm 
the  confidcuco  of  our  loyal  hearts.  But  the  silence 
drew  itself  out,  moment  after  moment,  wach  bequtath- 
ing  its  lc;,'aoy  of  pain  to  its  successor.  Mr.  Blake's 
eyes  were  raptly  fixed  on  his  accuser — hia  traducer, 
as  we  Becretly  deiiued  him.  Their  light  was  not  the 
glow  of  wrath,  nor  of  resentment,  but  of  a  strange 
wistful  curiosity,  mixed  with  eager  yearning.  Fear 
and  love  seemed  to  look  out  together. 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  Angus  swiftly  handed 
to  me  a  small  picture,  encased  after  an  ancient 
fashion. 

"  Look  at  that,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  that  will  tell  its  tale 
— that  is  my  father's  face." 

I  looked  with  eager  intentness,  and  it  required  but 
a  glance  to  show  that  the  pictured  face  before  me, 
and  the  pallid  face  beside  me,  were  the  same.  The 
picture  was  evidently  taken  long  years  before,  and  the 
stamp  of  youth  and  hope  and  ardent  faith  was  upon 
the    face.     Locks   raven   black,  and   an    un  wrinkled 


"  THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS"  201 

\row,  had  been  exchanged  for  those  that  bore  tlic  .car 
01  time  and  care;  bn  no  careful  eye  could  fail  ^o  see 
tlBt  the  youthful  face  of  the  picture  and  the  ashen 
faoB  of  the  elder  w?  re  one  and  the  same. 

But— more  striking  and  fatal  far  — the  photo- 
gr.r.h'8  evidence  was  not  required.  No  man  who 
Buw  as  I  saw.  the  faces  of  Michael  Blake  and  Angus 
Stra'3han  side  by  side  need  wait  for  other  evidence. 
Often  had  I  seen  them  thus  berorc— but  never  n.  •  ^ 
nakedness  of  passion. 

Passion  1      the  artist's  magic  hand  and  her  m> 
sketch  is  ever  of  her  home.     As  Titian's  inm. 
hills  were  but  the  reproduction  of  his  far-olT  dweu 
place,  genius  plighting  its  troth  to  childhood,  so  Ar  ,n 
passion  illumine  first  the  environs  of  her  long   taie 
home,  how  humble  so  ever  it  may  be.     Pa.eiou  i  unts 
the  eternal  childlike  that  is  in  us  all.     The  face  is 
the  window  through  which  the  viste  of  a  pouIV  mn^^r 
life  is  flashed  by  her  mystic  hand,  and  in  tlmt  1   oment 
the  window  glows  with  the  unfeigned  light        chi'd- 
hood,  its    simple  radiance  stUl   unquenche      though 
long  draped  by  artificial  yf  irs. 

Thus  transfigured  were  the  faces  of  Angus  Strachan 
and  Michael  Blake— the  one  with  mingled  love  ati-l 
fear  the  other  with  unmingled  scorn.  With  thai 
swift  intensity  of  passion  came  the  reversal  to  their 
common  type,  and  the  great  betrayal  was  complete. 
The  blood  they  shared  togethei,  speaking  a  kmdred 
language,  had  turned    King's    evidence   at  last,  and 


il 


•o8       ST.  CUTHBERrs  OF  THE    WEST 

ite   unanawereble    testimony   leaped    from   face   aid 
eje.  •*" 

For  God  hath  Hi.  .ilent  witne,«ea,  like  John  (he 
Baptist  by  us  shut  up  in  prison  and  by  us  behcaled 
-but  He  caUeth  them  to  the  witness  -  .tand  as 
pleaseth  Him ;  and  they  Uve  for  ev,  •  in  dreadful 
gospels  of  love  and  doom,  the  latter  eharinK  the 
power  of  the  former's  endless  life.  Their  voice  is 
heard  above  Horodias'  strains  of  reyelry.  and  even 
sceptred  Sadducees  tremble  at  the  sound. 

Vast  is  life's  mighty  forest,  but  the  wronger  and  the 
wronged  meet  somewhere   amid   its  shadowy  glade«. 
Surely  hfe'a  wooded  maze  might  afford  a  hiding-place 
to  those  who  fly  from    armed  memories— but  God's 
ran:  ^  tread  its  every  glen  with  stealthy  step,  and  the 
^liage  of  every  thicket  gleams  with  the  armour  of 
His  detective  host.     A  chance  meeting,  a  foundUng 
acquamtance.    a    stray   newspaper,   an    undestroyed 
letter,  a  resurgent  memory,  a  neglected  photograph 
or,  as  here,  a  tell-tele  tide  of  blood-aU  these  have 
accepted  God's  retainer  and  bear  the  invisible  badge 
that   denotes    His    world-spread    Force.      AU   Ufe's 
apparent  discord  is    harmony  itself  when  He  det-r- 
mines  the  departments  and  allots  to  everything,  and 
to  every  man.  his  work  i 

"  You  speak  of  Ettrick  I  What  know  yon  of 
Ettrick?  What  is  her  name  that  lives  there »"  I 
heard  Mr.  Blake  ask  in  a  faltering  whisper,  unheard 
by  the  ngid  worshippers. 


**THE  MILLS  OF  THh.  GODS"  209 

"  She  bean  no  name  save  that  which  jou  defiled 

it  ahall  not  be  spoken  here,  though  I  honour  it  with 
my  deepest  heart— but  look  on  thia,"  and  Angus  held 
out  before  him  what  he  had  drawn  from  his  bosom 
as  he  spoke. 

Michael  Blake's  guze  was  fixed  upon  it,  no  word  or 
sound  coming  from  his  lips.  His  eyes  clung  to  it 
with  tranquil  eagomess,  unconscious  of  all  about, 
still  clinging  when  Angus  withdrew  it,  wrapped  it 
in  the  paper  which  had  enclosed  ii,  and  restored  it  to 
its  hiding-placa 

I  know  not  why,  but  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him 
eagerly — 

"  Let  me  see  it,  Angus ;  my  own  mother  is  mth 
God." 

He  hesitated  but  a  moment,  then  drew  it  forth 
and  handed  it  to  me. 

"  All  the  world  may  see  it,"  he  said  quietly  ;  "  it  is 
my  mother— you  may  read  the  letter  if  you 
will" 

The  portrait  was  of  a  woman  still  rich  with  girlhood's 
charm.  About  nineteen  years  of  age,  I  should  say, 
tall  and  giaceful  and  sweet  of  countenance,  with  a 
great  wealth  of  hair,  with  eyes  that  no  flame  but 
loTe's  could  have  kindled,  her  lips,  even  in  a  picture, 
instinct  with  pure  passion,  and  her  whole  being 
evidently  fragrant  and  luscious  as  Scottish  girlhood 
alone  can  be.  For  the  sweetest  flowers  are  nourished 
at  the  breast  of  the  most  rugged  hills. 


ill 


^:.' 


210        ST.  CUTHBERrS  OF  THE    WEST 

I  was  Btill  reading  the  story  of  love  and  innocence 
and  hope,  all  of  which  were  written  in  the  lovely 
face  before  me,  when  Angus  said  very  gently— 

"  Bead  the  letter,  sir." 

The  writing  on  the  paper  ^^i^h  enclosed  the 
picture  had  escaped  my  notice.  It  was  a  letter 
from  Angus's  mother,  sent  with  the  daguerreotypes. 
Its  closing  words  ran  thus : — 

•'  I  send  ye  this  picture  o*  masel'  and  the  ane  o' 
the  man  I  loved  sue  weel.  No  ither  picture  have 
I  had  taken,  nor  ither  shall  there  be.  It  was  taken 
for  yir  faither  before  the  gloamia'  settled  doon  on  you 
and  me,  ma  laddie.  It  was  taken  for  him.  as  was 
every  breath  I  drew,  for  I  loved  him  wi'  every  ane. 

"Ye  maunna  think  ower  hard  o'  him,  laddie,  for 
yir  mither  canna  drive  him  forth,  so  ye  maun  bide 
thegithcr  in  this  broken  hairt  o'  mine.     And.  laddie, 
I  am  askin'  God  to  keep  me  pure,  for  my  love  will 
hae  its  bloom  some  day  far  ayont  us,  like  the  bonny 
heather  when  the  winter's  bye.     And  I  want  to  be 
worthy  when  it  comes.     I'm  sair  soiled.  I  ken,  but 
love  can  weave  its  robe  o'  white  for  the  very  hairt  it 
stained.     And    I   maun    be    true    till    the   gloarain's 
gone.     So   think  o*  yir    mother   as  aye  true  to  yir 
faither,  and  it'll  mebbe  help  yir  sorrow  to  ken  there's 
aye  this  bond  between  yir  faither  and  her  wha  bore  ye. 
And,  AiiOTS,  dinna  let  him  ken,  gin  ye  should  ever 
meet.     Yir  mother's  bearin'  her  sorrow  all  alane  m 


"  THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS 


an 


Ettrick,  and  her  laddie  11  bear  it  ayont  the  ocean. 
We're  a'  in  God's  guid  hands.     Yir  loving  mother, 

"  Janet  Strachan." 


I  returned  the  well-worn  letter  to  the  unhappy 
hand  from  which  I  had  received  it.  He  tenderly 
wrapped  it  about  his  mother's  picture,  and  thrust  the 
parcel  back  beside  the  loyal  heart  which  shared,  as  it 
was  bidden,  the  great  sorrow  and  disgrace. 

I  then  cast  about  in  my  mind  for  the  next  step 
which  should  be  taken.  Ordination  I  knew  there 
could  now  be  none.  The  pestilence  of  anger  and 
shame  and  sin  was  upon  us  all.  Dark  horror  sat 
upon  the  faces  of  the  waiting  congregation,  their 
eyes  still  fixed  on  these  two  actors  of  this  so  sudden 
tragedy.  It  may  have  been  that  the  proof  of  kiu- 
ehip,  as  demonstrated  by  these  confronting  faces,  was 
finding  its  way  into  their  hearts.  These  faces  were 
still  fastened  the  one  upon  the  other,  the  younger 
with  scowling  scorn,  the  older  with  mingled  love  and 
tenderness,  blended  with  infinite  self-reproach. 

I  could  see  no  course  open  to  me  except  the  dis- 
missal of  the  congregation,  and  ao  announced  my 
pmpose. 

"  The  kirk  session  is  adjourned  sine  die"  1  said, 
for  this  is  an  ancient  phrase,  and  the  proper  forms 
must  be  observed.  Even  when  our  dearest  lies  in 
her  coffin,  there  are  certain  phrases  which  announce 
in  cold  and  heartless  print  that  the  heart's  life-blood 


1 1 


319 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 


3 
|!      ] 


is  flowing  from  its  wound,  and,  however  eacred  that 
silent  form,  the  undertaker's  hands  must  have  their 

will  with  it 

"Moderator."  It  was  Thomas  Laidlaw's  voice. 
"  Moderator,  we  hae  heard  but  ae  side.  There's  aye 
twa  sides.  Will  ye  no*  let  the  accused  speak  for 
himsel'  ?     Fair  play  is  bonny  play." 

A  moment's  thought  was  enough  to  assure  me  as 
to  what  was  rWht. 

"  By  all  means,"  I  answered,  sadly  enough,  for  I 
^  but  little  hope  that  any  defence  could  be  offered. 
"  Mr.  Blake  may  certainly  speak  if  he  wishes — it  is 
but  fair.     Have  you  anything  to  say,  Mr.  Blake  ? " 

As  I  turned  towards  the  older  man  the  younger 
withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  face  on  which  they  had 
BO  long  been  fixed,  and  slowly  rising,  Angus  walked 
down  the  aisle  towards  the  door,  conscious  that  he 
himself  had  proclaimed  his  bitter  shame;  but  hir 
mother's  name  seemed  written  on  his  forehead, 
redeemed  by  the  sacrifice  of  his  own.  He  had  gone 
but  a  quarter  of  the  way  or  so,  when  a  trembling 
voice  was  heard. 

"Angus,  wait,"  it  said;  the  voice  was  faint  and 
tr-mulous  like  a  birdliag's  note — but  Angus  heard  it 
and  stood  still.  He  turned  towards  the  pew  whence 
it  came,  and  a  face  met  his  own,  a  woman's  face, 
blanched  and  pale,  except  for  two  burning  spots  upon 
her  cheeks  where  the  heart  had  unfurled  its  banners. 
It  was   a  woman's  voice,  I  say,  and  the   eyes  that 


"  THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS 


ai3 


looked  oat  from  it  sought  his  own  with  a  great  caress 
of  loyalty  and  love.  The  glowing  eyes,  and  the 
parted  lips,  and  the  quick  flowing  breath,  all  spoku 
the  bridal  passion ;  for  the  bride's  gk  7  is  in 
surrender,  the  bodily  sacrifice  but  the  pledge  of  her 
blended  and  surrendered  life,  lost  in  another'^ 
mastering  love. 

"Angus,  wait,'  she  murmured  again,  her  dainty 
gloved  hand  upon  the  book-board  as  she  essayed  to 
rise.  Her  mother  sought  to  restrain  her,  but  her 
touch  was  powerless;  for  the  outgoing  tide  was  at 
its  full. 

"He  shall  not  walk  down  that  aisle  alone,"  she 
faltered  to  her  mother,  the  words  unheard  by  otaers. 
"  We  shall  gc  down  together." 


f  i 


ii 


xxin 


A    MAIDEN    PRIESTESS 


PERHAPS  her  mother's  woman-heart  realised  in 
that  moment  that  the  one  path  irresistible  to 
H  woman's  love  is  the  path  of  sacrifice.  In  any  case 
she  ceased  from  her  protest,  and  the  gentle  form 
arose ;  moving  out  to  where  he  stood,  she  slipped  her 
dear  hand  into  Angus's,  and  together  they  walked 
slowly  down  the  aisle  of  the  crowded  church.  No 
sideward  glance  they  cast  nor  backward  did  Margaret 
ever  look.  Sweet  courage  was  shining  from  her 
face,  even  joy,  as  they  passed  out  together — the 
long  stride  of  the  sta'wart  man,  and  the  gentle 
step  of  the  dainty  maiden,  but  ever  hand  in  hand, 
hidden  from  the  strife  of  tongues,  in  love's  pavilion 
hidden. 

They  had  wandered,  knowing  not  where  or  whither, 
some  distance  from  the  church,  when  Angus  stopped, 
and  fixing  his  reverent  look  on  Margaret's  strangely 
happy  face,  he  said — 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  have  done ;  you  have 
tarnished  your  ^^      e — oh,  Margaret,  why  did  you  do 


A  MAIDEN  PRIESTESS 


21  ' 


it  ?  From  henceforth  you  will  share  the  shame  th:it 
belongs  to  me." 

Margaret's  face  was  upturned  to  his  own. 

"  Is  not  the  sunshine  sweet,  -fVngua  ?  And  so 
pure  !     Surely  God  loves  us  well ! " 

"It  shines  upon  no  man  so  sad  as  I,"  he  replied 
bitterly. 

"Angus!     After  what  I  did — and  the  church  eo 

fulll" 

"  Nor  so  happy — and  so  proud  1 "  concluded  Angus. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  ? " 

"  Anywhere,"  answered  Margaret ;  "  we  shall  walk 
the  long  walk  together." 

"  No,  dear  ont  together,  that    cainiot  be — 

but  not  apart,"  said  An^as,  his  voice  trembling. 

"Do  you  know,  Angus,"  said  Margjiret  after  a 
pause,  "I  had  often  read  about  how  engagements 
should  be  announced  And  no  one,  almost  no  one 
knew  that  you  loved  me.  And  after  that  first  time 
when  you  told  me  you  loved  me — and  l«pfore  you 
told  me  that  other — I  so  often  used  to  lie  awuke  and 
think  about  how  ours  should  be  announced.  For  I 
think  that  is  the  sweetest  thing  in  a  girl's  life,  the 
announcement  1  mean — no,  I  don't  mean  that — the 
sweetest  thing  is  what  has  to  be  told.  And  now  it 
is  all  told — and  just  to  think  it  was  done  in  a  church 
and    before    all    those    people!     And    now  they    all 

know and  I  am  eo  glad  !     No  girl  ever  had  it  done 

like  this  before." 


)  i 


1 » 


.dGV 


Ji6       ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 


"  Glad  ? "  said  Angus. 

"  Yes,  glad — and  proud — are^i't  you  ? " 

But  there  was  no  response,  save  the  old,  old  silent 
eloquence  of  love,  when  lip  speaks  to  lip  its  tender  tale, 
scorning  the  aid  of  words. 

"  Let  us  go  this  way,"  said  Margaret  at  length. 

"  Where  does  it  lead  to  ? " 

"  You  shall  see,"  she  answered ;  "  come  away  "-— 
and  together,  still  hand  in  hand,  they  walked  on. 

"  Let  us  rest  here,  Angus."  He  threw  himself  on 
the  grass  at  her  feet. 

"  Do  you  not  know  the  place  ? "  she  said. 

"  No,"  said  Angus,  "  were  we  ever  here  before  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Angus,  how  could  you  forget  ?     Look  again." 

He  looked  again  and  sacred  twilight  memories 
began  to  pour  back  upon  him. 

"  That  was  in  the  gloaming,  Angus,  you  remember, 
^jid  the  darkness  has  often  brooded  over  it  since  then 
— but  it  is  all  passed  now,  and  it  never  was  so  bright 
before." 

"  The  darkness  will  come  again,"  said  Angus. 

"But  it  will  ^-  able  to  forget  the  light — and  it 
will  wait —  There  is  never  any  real  brightness  till 
the  waiting's  past." 

The  Sabbath  stillness  was  about  them  and  its  peace 
was  in  their  hearts.  They  scarce  knew  why,  and 
the  world  would  have  said  that  Shadow  was  their 
portion;  but,  then  and  ever,  true  peace  passeth  al) 
understanding. 


mmm^ 


wy-:}ii^  MIT  ^> -.*w*;m 


A  MAIDEN  PRIESTESS 


ai7 


"  Eneel  down,  Angus,  kneel  here  beside  me,"  she 
suddenly  exclaimed. 

"  Kneel,  Margaret  1     Why  shall  I  kneel  ? " 

"  Never  mind  why — you  shall  see.  Kneel  down, 
Angus." 

He  knelt,  wondering  still;  she  removed  his  hat 
with  her  now  ungloved  hands  and  threw  it  on  the  grass. 

"  Darling,  I  love  you,"  she  said,  "  and  I  know  you 
are  good  and  true.  And  I  was  so  proud  this  morning 
when  you  were  to  be  ordained  to  God's  holy  service 
— and  it  must  not  be  broken  ofif  like  this.  Oh, 
Angus,  when  I  saw  your  face  this  n  rniiig,  I  feared 
80  that  your  whole  soul  would  turn  Vj  bitterness  and 
give  itself  up  to  hatred  of  that  man.  But  it  must 
not  be." 

"  Margaret,  stop !     Surely  you  must  know  " — 

"  Be  still,  Angus — it  must  not  be.  All  this  anguish 
must  break  in  blessing.  Son-ow  such  as  yours  will  be 
either  a  curse  or  a  blessing — and  it  must  not  be  a 
curse.  God's  love  can  turn  it  into  blessing — and  so 
can  mine.  We  shall  take  up  our  cross  together  and 
shall  see  it  blossom  yet  Oh,  Angus,  if  I  can  forgive 
him,  you  can,  for  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  to  any- 
body else."  Her  hands  were  now  upon  his  head — 
"  Angus  Strachan,  I  ordain  you  to  suffer  and  to  wait. 
I  ordain  you  to  God's  service  in  the  name  of  love  and 
sorrow  and  God — and  they're  all  the  same  name — 
and  I  love  you  so — and  you  are  an  elder  now.  Oh, 
dear  Lord,  take  care  of  our  love  and  make  us  true— 


r    "ll 


!i8       ST.  CUTHBERrS  OF  THE    WEST 


and  patient     And  blesB  our  sorrow  and  make  it  sweet 
and  keep  ua  near  the  Man  of  Sorrows.     Amen." 

The  white  dimpled  hands  rested  long  upon  thf 
auburn  locks  of  tlie  still  bended  head,  and  her  com 
passion  flowed  through  them  to  the  more  than  orphanec 
heart.  It  was  the  same  head,  she  thought,  and  tin 
same  heart,  as  had  once  been  blessed  by  a  mother'i 
anguished  hand,  doomed,  as  that  mother  knew,  to  th( 
world's  unreasoning  scorn. 

Her  own  peace  seemed  to  pass  into  his  troubL( 
soul;  the  anointed  head  bowed  lower  and  the  yok 
was  laid  upon  him,  never  to  be  withdrawn.  But  it 
bitterness  was  gone,  purged  from  it  by  those  whit 
dimpled  hands,  and  the  fragrance  of  a  soul's  sweete 
life  was  there  instead.  For  there  had  come  to  hii 
that  great  moment  when  secret  rebellion  turns  t 
secret  prayer,  craving  blessing  from  the  very  han 
that  had  smitten  him  with  lameness ;  and  Angus  wa 
making  his  ordination  vows  to  God. 

Upon  that  grassy  knoll,  under  heaven's  tender  sk; 
with  uiimoving  lips  and  broken  heart  he  made  tl 
great  surrender.  Patience  he  promised  God ;  and  i 
return  he  begged  the  forgiving  heart,  the  strength  i 
bear  his  lifelong  load,  and  the  aid  which  might  enab 
hiiu  to  attain  that  miracle  of  grace  when  ha  yet  shou 
pray  for  the  man  whose  sin  had  foreclothed  his  life 

shame. 

"  Let  us  go  back,"  said  Margaret  at  length,  foi  ci 
sun  was  westering. 


& 


r1  MAIDEN  PRIESTESS 


fi9 


"  Yes,  wo  will  go  back,"  eaid  he,  for  in  the  gentle 
words  he  heard  the  bugle  call ;  "  we  will  go  back." 
But  finit  he  kissed  the  ordaining  hands,  anointed  as 
they  had  been  to  cast  out  evil  from  the  heart  and  to 
bind  up  its  brokenness. 

Homeward  they  turned  their  steps,  and  the  noieca 
of  the  uncaring  world  soon  fell  upon  their  ears,  but 
their  hearts  were  holden  of  another  song,  and  they 
heard  them  not. 

Backward  they  bent  their  way  to  the  world  and  its 
cruel  pity — but  over  hand  in  hand. 


As  the  reader  already  knows,  Margaret  and  Angus 
went  forth  from  St.  Cuthbert'e  Church  just  aa 
Michael  Blake  was  invited  to  speak  in  his  own 
defence,  and  to  answer,  if  he  might,  the  droad  charge 
of  his  accuser. 

"  Have  you  anything  to  say,  Mr.  Blake  ? "  were  the 
words  I  had  just  uttered  when  Margaret  and  her 
lover  left  the  church,  with  all  the  sequel  which  hath 
been  just  recorded. 

In  answer,  he  watched  the  retreating  forms  till 
they  had  departed,  then  buried  his  face  in  his  handp. 
He  sat  thus  so  long  that  I  concluded  he  had  no  heart 
to  speak,  and  again  arose,  my  hand  outstretched  to 
give  the  blessing,  if  blessing  there  might  be  in  such 
an  hour.  The  congregation  arose  to  rec^'ve  the 
proffered  benediction,  but  before  my  lips  had  opened, 
^  faint  hand  plucked  my  gown. 


.^^^'ik^ti:^:^^^ 


^.£A 


tto 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 


*  I  will  Bpeak,  sir,"  and  pale  and  trembling  the  on- 
happj  man  roie  and  stood  beside  mo.  I  resumed  mj 
seat  and  the  people  dumblj  did  the  same,  gazing 
towards  their  elder  with  eyes  that  pleaded  for  the 
assurance  of  his  innocence.  Twice  or  thrice  he  strove 
for  utterance  before  the  words  would  come.  At 
length  he  spoke. 

"  Moderator  and  brethren,"  he  began,  "  if  such  as 
I  may  call  you  brethren.     I  am  a  sinful  man.     My 
hour  has  corr.9.     God's  clock  has  titmck,  and  it  is  the 
stroke  of  doom  for  my  unworthy  soul.     Not  that  I 
despair  of  final  mercy,  for  mine  is  a  scarlet  sin,  and 
for  such  there  is  a  special  promise.     But  God's  rod 
bath  fallen  upon  me.     The  Almighty  hath  scourged 
mo  through  my  own  son ;  for  he  who  has  just  gone 
forth  is  none  other  than  mine  own  child.     My  heart 
went  out  to  him  since  first  I  saw  his  face,  though  1 
knew  not  till  to-day  ti-it  he  is  my  flesh  and  blood. 
The  picture  you  saw  him  hold  out  before  me  is  none 
other  than  the  picture  of  his  mother's  face. 

"  I  speak  it  not  for  my  defence — but  I  thought  his 
mother  was  dead.  I  was  told  from  the  old  country 
that  she  was  gone,  and  more  than  one  lette.  was  re- 
turned to  me  with  the  statement  that  she  could  not 
be  found.  It  was  my  heart's  pur]X)8e  to  make  a 
worthy  home  for  her  here  in  Canada,  and  to  bring 
her  out  to  it  and  to  atone  if  I  might  for  the  cruel 
wrong.  The  first  is  long  since  done,  but  the  second 
was  beyond  my  power — at  ieasi  so  I  was  led  to  think 


A  MAIDEN  PRIESTESS 


•ti 


"  And  now,  Moderator,  I  place  in  your  hands  the 
resignation  of  the  office  on  which  I  have  brought  such 
deep  disgrace.  It  was  my  pride  to  be  an  elder  in 
St.  Cuthbert's,  for  it  was  hero  I  first  tasted  of  the 
Sayiour's  forgiving  grace ;  it  was  here  I  first  learned 
the  luxury  of  penitence,  and  here  was  born  my 
heart's  deep  purpose  to  retrieve  the  past — it  was 
my  pride,  I  -"ay,  to  be  an  elder  here,  but  it  is  now 
my  shame." 

lie  was  about  to  stop  when  Saunders  M'Tavish 
interrupted — 

"  Moderator,  there'll  be  no  need  to  proceed  by  libel, 
for  the  accused  party  has  confessed  his  guilt.  But 
he  haena  said  anything  to  the  court  about  his  soul, 
about  his  soul  and  his  sin,  and  his  relation  to  his  God. 
At  least,  not  all  he  might  like  to  say  and  we  might 
like  to  hear.  Mebbe  he'll  have  had  repentance  unto 
life  ? " 

T  waited.  Mr.  Blake's  r^^sponse  come  with  humble 
brokenness. 

"  Please  God  I  have,"  he  said ;  *  and,  unworthy 
though  I  be,  I  have  a  great  word  for  my  fellow-men 
tills  day — a  word  the  unfallen  angels  could  not  speak. 
Oh,  my  brethren,  believe  me,  I  have  not  been  leading 
a  double  life.  I  took  the  eldership  at  your  hands,  I 
know,  saying  nothing  of  the  dark  blot  that  soiled  the 
post.  My  humble  hope  was  that  in  service  I  might 
seek  to  redeem  my  life,  and  I  remembered  One  who 
said  to  a  guilty  soul    like    mine,  '  Feed    My  sheep/ 


-./^f 


i': 


,„        ST.  CUTHBERrS  OF  THE   WEST 

Penitence,  and  not  remorao.  I  thought,  waa  well  pl'^av 

ing  unto  God. 

"  And  you  will  b«»r  me  witness  that  I  have  tried 

to  warn  all.  eapecially  the  young    men.  against  the 

first  approach  of  sin.     I  fell  long  years  ago  bccaue-r 

I  cheriBu.i  sinful  images  in  my  heart  tUl  even  love 

-vent    down    before    them.     Sinoo    then,  God   »h  m^ 

witness.  I  have  made  it  my  lifework  to  drive  them 

forth    and    to    make    every  thought   captive   to   the 

redeeming  Christ.     My  Ufework  has  not  been  in  mj 

for     ry,  nor  in  my  town,  nor  in  my  church— but  in 

my  heart,  this  guilty  heart  of  mine.     I  have  striver. 

to  .h-ive  out  evil  thoughts— out.  in  the  blessed  name 

of  Jesus.     For  long.  I  could  not  recaU  my  sin  without 

,inning  anew.     But  I  had  a   hope  of  final  victory 

and  leaving  this.  I  purified  myself  even  as  He  is  puri?. 

"  It  was  irv  daily  prayer  that  God  would  make  m« 

useful,  poor  and  aU  but  stvnken  v.  reck  as  I  was.  tlui 

He  would  yet  make  me  a  danger-signal  to  the  youn; 

about  me— which  I   am    this   day.     For  a  wrecke< 

ship  does  not  tell  of  danger— it  swears  to  the  pen 

that  itself  has   known.     And    to    every  young  ma^ 

before  me  I  swear  to  two  things  this  hour.     The  firs 

is  that  your  sin  will  find  you  out.     Be  sure  of  thii 

All  our  phrases  about  lanes  that  have  no  tummg,  an 

the  mills  of  the  gods,  and  justice  that  smites  with  iro 

hand,  and  chickens  that  come  home  to  roost— all  the: 

gro  only  names    for    God's   unsleeping  vigilance.  ^ 

varied  statements  of  the  relentlessness  of  sin. 


MAIDEN'  PJilESTESS 


"The  other  truth  to  which  I  swear  ia  this,  that 
dark  and  bitter  memuriea  of  evil  may  be  a  tilcsaing  lo 
the  80ui,  if  wo  but  count  tliat  bin  our  deadly  enemy, 
and  rest  not  till  we  take  vuugeanco  on  it.  It  may 
yet  be  God's  laessenger  to  us,  if  we  lend  iiumble 
chaFtencd  lives,  seeking  to  redeem  the  past  unu  watch- 
ing unto  prayer.  There  is  no  discipline  so  bitter  and 
BO  blessed  as  the  discipline  of  an  almost  ruined  soul. 
For  old  sins  do  not  decay  a!)d  die ;  they  must  be 
nailed  upon  the  croes.  it  is  an  awful  truth  that 
he  who  was  once  filthy  is  filtliy  still,  but  it  is  still 
more  true,  thank  God,  that  there  is  One  whose  blood 
cleansetli  from  all  sin." 

He  8top]>ed  suddenly,  and  in  a  moment  he  was 
gone.  Down  that  same  aisle  by  which  his  child  had 
passed,  he  swiftly  walked,  bin  head  bowed,  his  face 
quivering  in  pain  like  one  who  was  being  scourged 
out  of  the  temple.  Fox-  there  are  corded  whips, 
knotted  by  unseen  hands. 

After  the  door  had  closed  behind  him  the  session 
clerk  arose. 

"  I  move,  moderator,"  he  said,  "  that  Mr.  Blake's 
resignation  be  laid  on  the  table." 

Before  his  motion  was  seconded,  Roger  Lockio,  one 
of  the  stalwarts,  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  congrega- 
tion. 

"  It's  no'  becomin'  in  me  to  interfere,"  he  began ; 
"  brt  we're  a'  assembled  here  as  a  worshippiu'  people, 
an'  1  move  that  the  kii'k  session  be  requested  no'  to 


I 


Z24        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

accept  the  resignation.  Oor  brother  fell,  nae  doot, 
but  it  was  lang  syne,  and  he  has  walked  worthy  o'  the 
Lord  unto  a'  pleasin'  since,  »  >  borwe  e  guid  witness 
to  his  Maister.  We  a'  ken  in':  what  tb ;  great  King 
an'  Heid  o'  the  Kirk  wad  'ae  wi'  hi.  resignation. 
Wi'  my  way  o'  thinkin',  a  sinfu'  man  wha  has  been 
saved  by  grace  is  juist  the  ane  to  commend  the 
Maister's  love.  I  move  the  session  be  asked  to  keep 
him  as  oor  elder." 

"  I  second  that,"  said  William  Watson,  a  man  of 
fifty  years.  "  He  brocht  me  to  Christ,  and  that's  ae 
soul  he  saved.  He  broke  the  alabaster  box  upon  his 
Saviour's  head  this  day  and  we  a'  felt  the  fragrance 
o't  If  God  Himsel'  canna  despise  the  contrite  hairt, 
nae  mair  can  we." 

I  was  ab^ut  to  put  the  motion  when  the  senior 
elder  arose :  "  I  hae  but  a  word,"  he  said,  "  an'  it's 
nae  word  o'  mine.  The  spirit  o'  the  Cross  is  wi'  us, 
and  I  will  read  a  bit  frae  the  Buik :  '  If  a  man  be 
overtaken  in  a  fault  ye  which  are  spiritual  restore 
such  an  one  in  the  spirit  of  meekness,  considering 
thyself  lest  thou  also  be  tempted.' " 

"  Are  you  ready  for  the  question  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Ay,  we're  a'  fine  an'  ready  noo,"  said  one  of  the 
worshippers. 

The  vote  was  taken,  and  there  was  no  dissenting 
voice.  Michael  Blake's  long  penance  had  done  its 
work  on  earth,  and  its  eternal  outcome  was  in  other 
hands  than  ours. 


fil 


I 


XXIV 

THE    SWEET    SUNNY    SOUTR 

T  WAS  strongly  inclined  to  accept  the  call.  Not 
-*-  that  I  liked  changes,  for  heart  vines  bleed  freely 
when  uptorn,  and  friendship's  stocks  cannot  be  bought 
on  margin.  But  my  heart  was  heavy,  and  St. 
Cuthbert'8  had  been  sorely  wounded.  Therefore, 
when  the  South  Carolina  Church  opened  correspond- 
ence with  uia  regarding  their  vacant  pulpit,  I  lent  an 
attentive  ear. 

All  who  have  known  sorrow  in  their  work  know 
how  sweet  sounds  the  voice,  even  the  siren  voice., 
which  calls  to  disiaut  scenes  of  toil.  Tlie  worM'n 
weary  heart  will  some  day  learn  that  no  far-leading 
path,  no  journey  by  land  or  sea  can  separate  us  from 
the  sorrow  we  seek  to  flee ;  because  no  path  hath 
been  discovered,  no  route  devised,  which  shall  lead  us 
forth  from  our  own  hearts,  where  sorrow  liith  her  lair. 

Xevcrthele.ss,  I  was  strongly  minded  to  go  forth 
from  the  work  which  had  become  my  very  life.  It 
is  Nature's  favourite  paradox  that  what  we  love  the 
moBt,  the  most  hath  power  to  give  us  pain.     Could 


1  11 


•'■mtm 


226        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 


we  withhold  our  lov  ,  no  hand  could  wound  us  sorely, 
for  it  takes  a  friend  to  make  an  enemy  worth  the 
name.  And  since  I  loved  St.  Cuthbert's  with  that 
love  which  only  sacrifice  can  know,  I  was  oppressed 
with  a  corresponding  fear  that  her  frown  would 
quench  whatever  glimmer  of  gladness  still  flickered  in 
my  heart.  For  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  ever  1 
was  glad.     And  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  ? 

My  daughter's  love  was  fixed  upon  a  man  whom  I 
deemed  impossible,  though  by  no  fault  of  his.  She 
liad  renounced  all  purpose  of  their  immediate  union 
in  deference  to  her  father's  protest,  but  her  love  was 
fixed  upon  him  still,  and  her  father  felt  like  one  who 
was  beating  back  the  spring.  Her  mother  was  torn 
with  the  torment  of  an  armed  neutrality.  Further, 
my  beautiful  church  had  been  scarred  by  the  explosive 
riot  of  that  ordination  '^^y,  stricken  with  a  soul's 
lightning;    and  the  w  agedy  of  our  home  hfe 

had  been  laid  bare  to     .try  eye. 

Margaret,  and  her  love,  and  her  lover,  and  her 
lover's  genealogy,  and  her  father's  forbiddal  of  their 
marriage,  all  these  were  daily  herbs  to  those  who 
loved  us,  daily  bread  to  native  gossip-mongers,  and 
daily  luxury  to  all  who  wished  us  ill.  My  attitude 
towards  Margaret's  lover,  and  whether  that  attitude 
was  right  or  wrong,  was  the  especial  subject  of  debate, 
and  all  New  Jedburgh  abandoned  itself  to  a  carnival 
of  judgment.  Even  tlie  most  pious  and  indulgent 
could  not  forego  the  solemn  luxury,  and   those  who 


THE  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH  227 

denied   themselves  all   of   scandal's  toothsome  titbits 
could  not  renounce  this  great  repast. 

I  entertained  no  actual  misgivings  as  to  St. 
Cuthbert'a  permanent  loyalty  to  me;  but  our  self- 
consciousness  had  become  raw  and  sore,  our  manse 
had  turned  suddenly  to  a  house  of  glass,  and  the 
whole  situation  was  so  fraught  with  embarrassment 
that  no  mere  man  since  the  fall  could  liave  boen  free 
from  an  in?tinctive  longing  to  escape. 

St.  Andrew's,  Charleston,  an  ancient  church  of  that 
ancient  city,  had  otlered  me  its  pulpit.  The  South- 
erners have  a  taste  for  British  blond,  and  they  stand 
ulone  as  connoisseurs  of  that  commodity.  Wherefore, 
the  St.  Audiew's  folk  had  Ciist  about  for  a  British 
minister,  preferring  the  second  growth,  hopeful  that 
its  advantage  of  American  shade  might  have  made  its 
excellence  eomx.lete. 

Their  committee  ranged  all  Canada,  finally  dis- 
mounting beneath  the  stately  steeple  of  St.  Cnthberf.s, 
their  lasso  loosed  for  arliun.  Or,  to  chimgo  the 
metaphor,  they  informed  tli-'ir  church  at  homo  that 
their  eyes  were  fastened  un  their  game  at  last ;  for 
tho  duty  of  suc]>  a  committee  is  to  tree  their  bird, 
then  hold  him  traTisfixed  by  various  well-known 
sounds  till  the  congregation  sliall  bring  hiia  down  by 
well-directed  aim,  bag  him,  and  bear  him  olT. 

The  Charleston  Committee  was  composed  of  fnur, 
who  attended  St.  Cuthbert's  both  morning  and  ex.uing 
v.hcn  thcr  came  one  Snbhaib.  d.iy  to  spy  out  thr  l.vnd. 


228        S2:  CUTHBERTS  OF  THE    WEST 

The  proprietor  of  the  Imperial  Hotel,  himself  an 
extinct  Presbyterian,  told  me  afterwards  that  they 
arrived  late  at  night,  begged  to  be  excused  from 
registering,  and  went  immediately  to  their  rooms. 
But  he  knew  in  the  morning  that  they  were  no', 
to  the  manner  born — for  they  asked  for  "  oatmeal " 
for  breakfast,  which  is  called  porridge  by  all  who 
boast  even  a  tincture  of  that  blood  it  hath  so  long 
enriched. 

Then  they  ate  it  with  outward  signs  of  enjoyment, 
which  also  flics  in  the  face  of  all  Scottish  principle. 
Besides  all  this,  they  gave  the  maid  a  quarter,  which 
was  the  most  conclusive  evidence  of  all. 

They  walked  to  St.  Cuthbert's  in  four  different 
detachments  and  sat  in  separate  eections  of  the 
church.  But  they  were  not  unnoticed ;  every  Scotch 
section  marked  its  man,  for  in  New  Jedburgh 
strangers  were  events,  i  myself  remarked  three  ''f 
them ;  devout  they  seemed  and  yet  vigilant — as  w.is 
natural,  for  they  had  come  to  both  watch  and  pray. 

The  psalms  were  too  much  for  them ;  they  seemed 
to  enter  heartily  into  the  other  portions  of  the  service 
— but  the  psalms  in  metre  are  a  great  Shibboleth. 
My  beadle,  who  always  sat  where  he  could  command 
the  congregation,  has  often  assured  me  that  when  a 
psalm  was  announced  he  could  soon  tell  the  sheep 
from  the  goats. 

The  service  passed  without  special  incident;  for, 
although   I  suspected   their  errand,  all  thought  of  it 


THE  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH 


2J9 


vanished  when  I  came  to  preach.     God's  jealous  care 
will  hold  to  undivided  loyalty  the  heart  that  seeks  to 

serve  Him. 

Monday  morning  brought  the  deputation  to  close 

range.     They  interviewed  me  in  my  etudy,  an(?   the 

house  was  redolent  of  Southern   courtesy  and  grace. 

Their  accent  had  a  foreign  tang  but  their  heart's  tone 

was  that  of  universal  love.     This  latter  word  is  not 

too    strong    to    use,  for  the  Southerner    has    a  rare 

genius  for   laying  claim  to  yo^ir  very  heart  by  the 

surrender  of  his  own.     Affection  bloorne   ;';ist  in  the 

Southern    soul,   but   our    Northern    l)ud    needs   time. 

Especially  tardy  is  its  ripening  in  Scottish  hearts,  but 

the  fruit  is  to  Eternity. 

The    conversation   was  one  of  great    interest    and 

•leaaure  to  myself ,  and  while  t  could  give  uo  defi  u.a 

promise    1    made    no  secret  o£  the  attractivenetc 

their  proposal. 

"  You  will  be  ho  good  as  to  present  our  regards  to 

the  mistress  of  the  manse,"  said  one  of  tlieiu,  as  they 

rose  to  go. 

"Thank  you,  it  will  give  me  great  pleasure,"  I 
responded ;  "  ray  wife  is  a  Southerner.  Her  father, 
who  is  not  living  now,  fought  at  Gettysburg.  My 
wife's  standing  instruction  is  to  say  that  he  was  not 
killed  ix.  attle,  for  that  was  many  years  ago,  and  she 
has  the  Southern  instinct  for  youth." 

"And    the  Southeru   talent  for  it  too,   I  reckon," 
the    courtly    gentleman    replied.      "  We    are    mighty 


ajo        52!  CUTHBERTS  OF  THE    WEST 


glad  to  hear  that  she  belongs  to  us.  Surely  we  will 
have  a  friend  at  court.  Let  her  be  considered  our 
plenipo*^entiary-extraordinary.  Does  her  heart  still 
turn  towards  her  Southern  home  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  it  does,"  I  made  reply ;  "  but  it  has 
been  long  garrisoned  within  these  rock-bound  walls, 
and  I  know  she  has  come  to  love  them.  I  have 
often  heard  her  say  that  tliere  is  no  trellis  for 
Southern  vines  like  these  mountainous  hearts,  true 
and  faithful  as  the  eternal  hills  themselves." 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  it,"  another  of  the  deputation 
interposed.  "  From  what  I  have  seen  and  learned  of 
these  folk,  I  think  they  are  our  nearest  kin.  The 
Scotch  and  the  Sou  thorn  nature  are  alike,  the  same 
intensitj  of  feeling,  but  with  them  it  glows  and  burns, 
while  with  us  it  flames  and  sparkles." 

"  The  same  stream/'  suggested  the  first;  "  but  ours 
breaks  easier  into  flood." 

"  Well,  I  hope  the  flood  will  bear  her  back  to  her 
native  shore,"  said  the  youngest  member  of  the 
committee,  who  was  a  colonel,  having  been  born 
during  the  Civil  War. 

We  all  laughed  pleasantly  at  our  racial  distinctions, 
and  the  gentlemen  withdrew. 

"  We  will  not  tell  you  good-bye,  for  we  hope  to 
see  you  soon  again,"  was  the  last  word  I  heard,  the 
Southern  idiom  and  the  Southern  cordiality  both  in 
evidence. 

Definite    action    on    the    part  of    the    Charleston 


rilE  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH 


»3i 


Church  Boon  followed  the  return  of  thoir  repreaentu 
t'^es.     And  1  knew  not  what  to  do. 

In  the  hope  of  relieving  my  perplexity,  I  accepted 
an  invitation  to  spend  a  Sabbath  with  the  St. 
Andrew's  people  and  occupy  their  proffered  pulpit. 

My  heart  had  sore  misgivings  when  I  said  good- 
bye to  Issie  Hogg;  her  years  were  but  tliiiLecn;  and 
every  year  had  bound  her  closer  and  closer  to  my 
heart  till  I  knew  she  was  more  dear  to  me  tlian  any 
other  child  save  one.  The  sands  of  life  were  nearly 
run,  and  I  feared  greatly  lest  they  miglit  be  spent 
before  I  should  return. 

Ne\^  Jedburgh  was  winter-wrapped  when  1  left  it, 
and,  taking  steamer  from  New  York,  1  disembarked 
at  Churleston  into  almost  intoxicating  sweetness. 
Their  dear  South  land  was  atlame  with  early  summer, 
and  my  idea  of  Paradise  was  revised.  How  could 
these  Southern  hearts  be  otherwise  than  warm  and 
fragrant!  All  the  land  about  seemed  hke  Nature's 
temple,  breathing  forth  its  silent  autheiu  and  cele- 
brating its  perpetual  mass. 

Yet  all  its  vernal  beauty  seemed  but  as  a  portal  to 
the  inner  shrine,  the  sanctuary  of  Southern  h.  ^pitality. 
Which  hospitality  is  a  separate  brand  and  hath  no 
rival  this  side  the  Gates  of  Pearl.  Let  all  who 
would  feel  the  surprise  of  heaven's  welcome  forego 
the  luxury  of  a  visit  to  a  Southern  home ;  for  they 
have  stolen  that  celestial  fire  to  kindle  their  waiting 
hearths. 


I 

i 


ii 


13a        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 


k 


'  •^■v,.':f 


I 


I  was  committed  to  the  caro  of  one  of  the  families 
of  St.  Androw'b  whose  houeoholJ  numbered  five ;  and 
very  heart  had  many  doors  all  open  wide.  That  is, 
open  wide  till  yon  had  entered,  for  then  they  seemed 
tiglit  closed,  locked  with  a  golden  key.  Ancient 
pride  seemed  to  be  their  family  j)OSse88ion,  never 
Haunted,  but  8ni)pre.ssed  rather — and  you  knew  it 
only  because  your  own  heart  acknowledged  that  this 
must  be  its  rif^hLful  dwelling-place. 

I  noted  again  the  pleasing  custom  of  Southern 
ladies,  who  shako  hands  on  introduction,  and  for  ever 
after.  The  candid  giaciousnoss  tliat  marks  the  at-t 
is  in  happy  contrast  to  the  self-conscious  agitation 
of  the  underbred  and  the  torpid  panic  of  their  stifled 
bow. 

^ly  host  and  hostess  were  persons  of  rare  interest. 
Some  of  England's  best  blood  was  in  their  veins ;  it 
had  come  to  them  by  way  of  Virginia,  in  their  eyes 
tlie  last  medium  of  refinement.  The  final  touch  of 
sauLjuinary  indigo  is  given  only  at  Virginia's  hands, 
the  Virginian  aristocracy  ueing  a  blessed  union  of  the 
English  chivalric  and  the  American  intrinsic,  the 
heraldic  of  the  old  world  blended  with  the  romantic 
of  the  new — wliich  might  make  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire proud  to  receive  reordination  at  their 
hands. 

English  aristocracy  ambles  on  in  an  inevitable  path, 
high  banked  by  centuries — but  the  Virginian  hath 
leaped  the  huidle  of  the  ocean  and  still  retained  its 


m  t 


THE  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH  23: 


coronet;    which    provos    that     it    was    fashioned    \n 
eternity  after  the  express  pattern  of  their  patrician 

heads. 

As  I  describe  the  lofty  Pource  of  this  gracious 
Southern  household,  I  bethink  myself  that  to  this  day 
I  cannot  tell  how  I  came  to  know  thnt  theirs  was 
an  ancient  family.  No  reference  to  it  from  th(-ir 
own  iips  can  I  recall ;  certainly  no  bimHt.  except  the 
tranquil  boast  of  proud  serenity  and  noMe  bearing, 
and  the  nollf^f^t  ohlvjt  of  loving  hearts. 

Grave  courtesy  and  sweet  simplicity  and  mirthful 
dignity  seemed  to  be  the  heirlooms  whicli  tliey  shared 
as  common  heritor,  ,  and.  chiefcst  of  credentials,  when 
they  stood  in  the  library  amid  the  shades  of  ancestors 
preserved  in  oils.   I   felt  no  sense  of  humour  in  the 

situation. 

This  is  a  gveat  tribute ;  for  tlie  ph-beian  may  boast 
bis  ancestors  but  he  dare  not  paint  tliem ;  and  many 
a  pioneer  aristocrat  hath  compassed  his  undoing 
because  he  thus  tried  to  put  new  wine  into  old 
bottles.  Wishing  to  found  a  family,  ho  proceeds  to 
find  one.  aud  both  are  covered  with  shame  as  with  a 

garment. 

Many  of  our  new  world  nobility,  finding  in  sudden 
wealth  the  necessity  for  sudden  pedigree,  have 
resurrected  their  ancestors  and  tried  in  vain  to  touch 
them  into  gentleness,  committing  to  an  artist  the 
secret  task  of  God.  Even  those  who  have  made 
fortune  in  oils,  consiyteutl)    restoring  their  iiinocent 


»3i        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WE. 

forefathers  by  the  same,  have  only  advertised  their 
weakness  with  their  wares. 

It  is  true  that  the  Vardcll  family  coat-of-arms  was 
not  concealed—but  it  was  not  brandished  or  ex- 
pounded. In  quiet  but  vigilant  emblazonry,  it 
seemed  to  stand  apart,  like  some  far  back  member 
of  the  family  in  whose  pride  it  shared. 

Which  reminded  me,  by  contrast,  of  a  call  I  had 
once  made  upon  a  certain  Nortliern  family,  con- 
spicuously rich  and  conspicuously  new.  While  wait- 
ing in  the  drawing-room,  I  observed  four  different 
crests,  or  coata-of-arms,  framed  and  hanging  in  a 
separate  place,  smirking  to  one  another  in  token  of 
their  youthful  fortune  ;  for  the  lines  had  fallen  unto 
them  in  pleasant  places. 

Soon  the  mistress  of  the  mansion  swept  into  the 
room,  her  locomotion  accompanied  by  a  wealthy 
sound,  silk  skirts  calling  unto  silk  skirts  as  deep 
calleth  unto  deep.  A  little  pleasant  conversation 
ensu  vhich,  among  other  things,  informed  me  that 
the  Turkish  rug  beneath  me  had  cost  six  hundred 
dollars;  whereupon  I  anxiously  lifted  my  unworthy 
feet,  my  emotion  rising  with  them.  After  both  had 
subsided,  I  sought  to  stir  the  sacred  pool  of  memory, 
pointing  reverently  to  one  of  the  aforesaid  emblems 
of  heraldry. 

"  That  is  your  family  coat-of-arms,  Mrs.  Brown,  is 
it  not?"  I  asked,  throwing  wide  the  door  for  the 
return  of  the  noble  dead. 


THE  SWEET  SU.ySY  SOUTH 


"35 


"  Yes,"  she  answered  proudly,  "  that  i«  my  one, 
and  that  one  there  ia  Mr.  lirowu's,  nnd  those  other 
two  are  the  children's ;  the  yellow  one  is  Victoria's, 
and  the  red  one  is  Louisa  Alexandra's.  Mr.  Brown 
bought  them  in  New  York,  and  we  thought  when  we 
were  getting  thenj  we  niigiit  just  as  well  got  one 
aiiiecc  for  the  children   too." 

How  rich  and  reckless,  1  reflcctod,  is  tlio  sjiend- 
thrift  generosity  of  our  new  world  rich  ! 

I  could  n(jt  but  recall  how  those  mean  oM  Knglish 
families  make  one  such  emblem  do  for  cent  rries,  and 
the  children  have  to  be  content  with  its  rusty 
symbols.  r>ut  this  lavish  entcriirise  cheered  me  by 
its  refreshing  contrast ;  for  every  one  was  new,  and 
each  child  had  one  for  its  very  own. 

There  is  no  need  to  dwell  on  the  succeeding 
Sabbath.  St.  Amlrcw's  church  bore  everywhere  the 
e\  '  nces  of  \;eulth  and  refinement.  Large  and 
sympathetic  congregations  were  before  me,  evidently 
hospitable  to  the  truth ;  for  Huguenot  and  Scotch- 
Irish  blood  does  not  lose  its  ruling  passion,  and 
South  Carolina  has  its  generous  portion  of  them 
both. 

I  sorely  missed  the  psalms,  without  which,  to 
those  who  have  acquired  the  stern  relish,  a  service 
lacks  its  greatest  tonic.  But  my  poor  efl'orts  seemed 
well  received,  and  the  flood  of  Southern  fervour  burst 
forth  later  on,  as  we  sat  around  the  Vardells'  dinner- 
table. 


a3f.        ^'>'7!  CUTHDERT'S  Ot   THE    WEST 


I  was  being  initiated  mto  the  mystic  6wee' a  of 
"Hyllabub,"  u  Southern  concoction  of  which  my 
sober  Scutch  folks  had  never  heurd.  Whoso  takes  it 
may  not  look  iipon  the  wine  when  it  is  red,  for  ita 
glow  is  muHlcd  by  various  other  moral  things ;  but 
the  wine,  waiting  patiently  at  the  bottom,  cometh  at 
hiwt  unto  ita  own ;  and  the  glow  which  was  absent 
from  the  cup  may  be  soon  detected  upon  the  face  of 
hiui  ^Aho  took  it,  beguiled  by  ihe  innocent  foliage 
amidst  which  the  historic  serpent  lurks. 

Webster  d*  tinea  it  as  a  dish  of  cream,  flavoured 
witli  wine,  and  beaten  to  a  froth.  But  Webster  was 
from  Massachusetts  and  his  advantages  were  few. 
The  cultured  Southerner,  more  versed  in  luxury  than 
language,  knoweth  well  tliat  it  is  a  ditjh  of  wine, 
flavoured  with  cream,  and  not  beaten  at  all  since  the 
foundation  of  the  world. 

Southerners  incline  to  eulogy ;  and  eyllabubs  insist 
upon  it  Wherefore,  after  the  third  syllabub  had  run 
the  same  course  that  its  fatliers  had  run,  Miss  Sadie 
turned  to  me  and  said — 

"  That  was  a  perfectly  lovely  uermon  you  preached 
to  us  this  morning  " 

"  You  are  very  frank,"  quoth  I,  for  I  was  un- 
accustomed to  compliments,  one  every  six  or  seven 
years,  and  an  extra  thrown  in  at  death,  being  the 
limit  of  Scotch  enthusiasm. 

"  Well,"  replied  Miss  Sadie,  "  1  hope  I  am.  I 
think  it  is  sweet  and  lovely  to  tell  people  if  you  like 


^mmMA 


the 


r///j  swEi-r  su'Nm-  south        =37 

them      Wbat'8  thr  uBe  of  wailing'  till  they're  dead 
before  you  8ay  nice  Uungs  about  your  friends  ?     I 
folkH  love  i.e.  or  think  me  nice.  I  want  them  to  tell 
uie  80  while  I'm  alive." 

"I    h,ve    yuu.  and    I    think    y-.u   are    H^^.•et    and 

h'^utiful,"  I'aid  I.  ooodicnt. 

Then  came  a  dainty  Southern  cry-not  the  bold 
Bqueal  of  other  pirl«.  nor  the  loud  honking'  o,  those 
who  mourn  for  girlhood  gone-hut  the  wonucn-note 
which    only    the    Southern    girl     connnancb     in     ita 

perfection.  . , 

•<  Father '  Do  you  hear  what  that  preacher  said 
to  me  just  now?"  Bhe  cried  archly.  'Isn't  it 
perfectly  dreadful  for  him  to  b  ,  things  like  that  to 
a  simple  maiden  like  me  ?     You  awful  man  ! " 

"  Our  guest  is  only  ilesh  and  blood.  Sadie/  answered 
the  courtly  father  when  his  laughing  ceased;  "so 
I  presume,  like  the  rest  of  us,  he  thinks  you  lovely. 
As  for  his  telling  you^  bo.  he  was  only  auryu.g  out 
vour  own  instruction.^." 

'  « I  don't  see  how  you  could  have  done  anything 
else,"  laughed  Mr..  Vardell.  "  You  shut  him  up  to 
it  you  know.  Sadie.  After  your  precept,  to  have 
said  nothing  nice  would  have  meant  that  there  was 

nothing  nice  io  i  y- 

"  But  seriously."  resumed  Miss  Sadie,  turnmg  agam 
to  me.  «  that  was  really  a  lovely  sermon  this  morning. 
It  is  beautiful  to  be  able  to  help  a  whole  congregaUon 
like  that" 


v^»r. 


838        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 

"Yes,"  chimed  in  Miss  VardeU,  Sadie's  sweet 
senior,  "it  was  perfectly  fascinating.  I  shall  never 
forget  it  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  I  really  think  you  will  have  to  let  us  speak  our 
mind,"  added  their  mother.  "  Your  Geneva  gown  was 
60  becoming;  I  do  so  wish  our  Southern  ministers 
would  adopt  it.  And  the  sermon  was  perfect.  I 
especially  admired  the  way  it  seemed  to  grow  out  of 
the  text ;  they  seemed  to  grow  together  like  a  vine 
twining  around  a  tree." 

I  eudured  this  tender  pelting  with  the  best  grace 
I  could  command,  though  this  was  the  first  time 
I  had  ever  been  the  centre  of  such  a  hosannah 
thunderstorm.  The  tribute  to  the  kinship  of  text 
and  sermon,  however,  was  really  very  pleasing  to 
me.  Just  at  this  juncture,  when  a  new  batch  of 
compliments  was  about  to  be  produced,  smoking 
hot,  an  aged  aunt,  the  prisoner  of  years,  ventured 
an  enquiry. 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  been  there — but  I  am  far 
past  that,"  she  said.     "  What  was  the  text,  Sadie  ?  " 

Sadie  flew  into  the  chamber  of  her  memory  to 
catch  it  before  it  should  escape.  But  the  sudden 
invasion  had  evidently  alarmed  it,  for  it  had  gone. 
She  silently  pursued  it  into  space,  but  retuiued 
empty-handed. 

"That's  strange,"  she  faltered;  "it  was  a  lovely 
text,"  she  added,  by  way  of  consolation.  "But  it's 
gone;   I   was  so  taken  up  wiLh  the   sermon   that   I 


^ 


^,-'^^- 


THE  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH 


239 


must  have  failed  to  remember  the   text,"    she    con- 
cluded, false  to  her  first  love,  but  faithful  to  her  guest. 

"Well,  Josie,"  said  the  still  unenlightened  aunt, 
"  I  will  have  to  look  to  you.  You  will  tell  me  what 
it  was." 

Josie  joined  in  the  chase,  but  their  prey  had  had  a 
noble  start  and  was  now  far  beyond  them. 

"  It  was  in  the  New  Testament,  I  think,"  said 
Josie,  pleased  with  this  pledge  of  accuracy,  and 
satisfied  that  she  had  outrun  her  sister — "  and  it 
was  tolerably  long."  This  w.is  said  with  the  air 
of  one  who  had  almost  identified  it,  and  might  justly 
leave  the  rest  to  the  imagination.  "  I  reckon  I  could 
find  it  if  I  had  a  Bible,"  she  added  hopefully. 

No  Bible  was  produced,  for  that  would  have  been 
taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  the  fugitive ;  but 
the  eulogists  began  their  mental  search  in  unison, 
quoting  various  fragments  of  my  morning  prayer 
at  family  worship,  which  they  carefully  retained  as 
witnesses.  After  they  had  ransacked  every  mental 
corridor  in  vain  they  acknowledged  the  fruitlessness 
of  the  quest,  and  I  myself  told  their  aged  relative 
the  text. 

"Of  course,"  they  cried  together,  each  repeating 
portions  of  it  again  and  again  in  the  spirit  of 
atonement 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Vardell,  "  that  the  mind 
undergoes  a  kind  of  relaxation  after  a  delicious 
tension  such  as  we  exporienced  to-day." 


i 


i 

(1- 

I 


^'^W^  V v-w.  \  wi'  iiiH  »j**nrr  II    .». 


ItliiMidBlllHi 


m:;9^3 


T 


* 


a4o        57!  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

I  marvelled  greatly  at  this  relentless  sweetnesa. 

"  I  knew  it  was  in  the  New  Testament,"  said  Josie 
triumphantly — and  we  silently  accorded  her  the 
praise  that  was  her  due. 

But  I  inwardly  bethought  myself  of  thos 
granite  lips  in  the  frozen  North,  unthawed  by 
speeches,  yet  each  one  the  reservoir  of  my  toxv 
sermous,  as  vinforgotten  as  they  were  unsung. 


int 

n  'er 
v.'\ 


m 


^tfi 


'l-^m' 


ZMkj^Mj^jtr^:^6!m:. 


XXV 


ST.    CUTHBEBT3    SECOND    CALL 


MY  reluctant  farewells  had  been  said,  my  gracions 
entertainers  had  grown  dim  upon  tlie  wharf; 
and  the  Atlantic  was  greeting  our  ship  with 
boisterous  welcome.  For  the  Atlantic  is  far  travelled 
and  loves  to  surprise  those  Southern  shores  with  the 
waves  of  Northern  waters. 

One  by  one  the  passengers  retired  from  the  deck, 
some  with  slow  dignity,  some  with  solemn  haste,  and 
sojie  with  volcanic  candour. 

I  remained,  sharing  the  scant  survival  of  the  lit, 
and  fell  into  a  reflective  mood,  fur  I  love  to  think  to 
music,  none  so  grand  as  the  accompaniment  of  ocean. 
That  mighty  throat  is  attuned  to  the  human  ;  its  cry 
of  deep  mysterious  passion,  its  note  of  conflict,  is 
the  epitome  of  the  universal  voice.  It  accorded  well 
with  the  mood  that  possessed  me,  for  that  mood  was 
gray. 

The  prevailing  thought  was  this — that  I  was  going 
back  to  winter.  Grim  relapse  this,  I  mused,  to  go 
forth    from    bud    and    bloom    and    bird,   to    pendent 


r^'li 


24a        57:  CUTHBERT*S  OF  THE   WEST 

icicle  and  drifted  snow.  For  the  blood  soon  warms 
beneath  Southern  skies,  and  a  man  soon  recognises 
that  a  garden  was  the  ancestral  home  of  him  and  of 
all  mankind.     Even  the  Eskimo  can  be  traced  to  Eden. 

Yes,  I  was  going  back  to  winter  in  very  truth, 
without  and  within ;  for  there  is  a  sharper  winter 
than  any  whose  story  the  thermometer  records.  The 
winter  of  ray  discontent,  and  of  another's  blighted 
heart,  and  of  still  another's  darkened  life,  awaited  me 
beyond  these  turbid  waters !  My  way  was  dark,  and 
my  path  obscure  before  me.  Chart  and  compass 
were  blurred  and  numb.  To  remain  in  New 
Jedburgh,  and  to  remove  to  Charleston,  seemed 
equally  distasteful. 

I  had  given  the  Southern  church  no  assurance  of 
my  purpose,  because  purpose  I  had  none.  Yet  the 
stern  necessity  of  choice  was  upon  me,  this  most 
sombre  enfranchisement  of  manhood,  that  we  are 
compelled  to  choose,  willing  or  imwilling.  Saint 
and  sinner,  believer  and  infidel,  are  alike  under  this 
compulsion  in  matters  moral — and  in  all  matters. 
We  speak  of  the  stern  pressure  which  demands  that 
men  shall  make  a  living;  but  its  dread  feature  is 
herein,  that  our  living  is  a  succession  of  pregnant 
choices  on  which  our  deepest  livelihood  depends — and 
these  choices  melt  into  destiny,  involving  the  infinite 
itself. 

My  people,  I  ruminated,  eould  help  me  to  a 
dtjcision  if  they  only  would.     But  I  knew  how  non- 


gg||_ 


^.m-im  m^mp.m^ms^mt^'^mMi^k 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  SECOND  CALL        243 

committal  they  woiild  be ;  for  they,  and  all  their  kind, 
are  inclined  to  assume  no  responsibility  of  another's 
Boul,  and  to  surreuder  no  fragment  of  their  own. 

New  York  was  reached  at  last,  the  waves  still 
tossing  heavily.  When  I  alighted  from  the  tiain  at 
New  Jedburgh,  the  breath  of  winter  greeted  me. 

One  of  my  parishioners,  an  Abcrdonian  born,  was 
on  the  lookout.  He  shook  hands,  but  said  nothing  of 
welcome  home.  Yet  his  hand  was  warm,  and  its 
grip  had  a  voice  that  told  me  more  than  evon  sweet 
Suutliern  lips  could  say.  Fur  its  voice  was  bass — 
which  is  God's. 

"  Issie's  wantiu'  ye,"  be  said  calmly.  "  She's  far 
gone  an*  she's  been  ask  in'  for  ye." 

The  dawn  as  yet  had  hardly  come,  and  seating 
myself  upon  the  box,  I  told  the  cabmuii  to  drive 
quickly  to  Issie's  home.  As  we  passed  through  the 
Btill  unstirring  town,  he  said — 

"  He'll  be  sittin'  up  with  him,"  pointing  to  a  dimly- 
lighted  window. 

"  Who'll  be  sitting  up  ? "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot.  You  won't  have  heard.  That  is 
Mr.  Strachan's  room.  At  1  ast  I  think  that  is  the 
name.  I  only  came  here  myself  to  work  ten  days 
ago.  A  poor  homeless  woman  landed  here  last 
week  from  Ireland.  One  of  those  immigration  agent 
devils  over  there  took  her  last  penny  and  sent  her 
over  to  Canada,  to  starve  for  all  he  cared.  She 
showed  smallpox  after  she  landed  here,  and  her  little 


■■»»«-%J|' 


244        ST.  CUTIIBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 

lad  was  with  her.  He  took  it  too.  Well,  she  died 
— but  before  she  died  she  told  her  stury.  The  old 
story,  you  know — had  bad  luck,  you  see,  and  the 
fellow  skipped  out  and  left  her.  The  woman  gets 
the  worst  of  it  every  time,  don't  she  ? " 

"She  died!"  I  exclaimed.  "And  the  little  one? 
Where  ia  the  boy  you  spoke  of  ? " 

"  That's  him ;  that's  what  the  light's  burnin'  for. 
Angus  Strachan,  so  they  say,  paid  all  the  funeral 
expenses,  and  they  wanted  to  send  the  kid  away 
Bomewheres — some  hospital  for  them  catchin'  diseases. 
But  Strachan  acted  queer  about  it.  He  wouldn't  let 
them  touch  it.  And  he  took  it  to  his  own  room  and 
said  he  would  take  care  of  it  himself." 

"And  did  they  let  him  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Let  him  ?  I  just  guess  they  did  !  They  couldn't 
help  it.  You  see,  he'd  been  in,  monkeyin'  round  the 
smallpox  already — so  they  had  to.  And  he  wrapped 
the  kid  up  in  a  blanket  and  took  it  to  his  room. 
They  say  his  light's  never  been  out  at  night  since." 

"  He  has  not  taken  the  disease  himself,  has  he  ? " 
I  inquired. 

"  Oh  no ;  leastwise,  I  never  heard  cell  of  it.  But 
them  was  queer  actions  for  a  young  fellow,  wasn't 
they  ?  No  accountin'  for  tastes,  as  the  fellow  said ! 
Can  you  understand  it  yourself,  sir  ? " 

"  I  think  I  can,"  was  my  reply ;  "  let  us  hurry  on," 
and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  at  Issie's  house. 

Little  Issie  had  long  since  snuggled  down  in  her 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  SECOND  CALL        245 


own  separate  place  in  my  heart;  she  was  iudeeii  a 
favourite  with  all  who  knew  her — but  1  eaw,  aa  I 
stepped  into  the  room,  that  God  loved  her  best  of  all. 
The  thin  white  hands  were  tightly  held,  one  in  her 
father's,  the  other  in  her  mother's,  as  though  they 
would  detain  her ;  but  the  angela  heeded  not  and 
went  on  with  the  preparations  for  her  flight.  These 
were  almost  complete  when  1  arrived ;  Issie  alone 
knew  that  they  were  of  God's  providing,  for  the  face 
she  turned  to  me  was  full  of  childish  sweetness,  and 
her  smile  was  touched  with  other  light. 

"  I'm  glad  you're  home,"  she  whispered,  as  I  bent 
low  beside  her.  "  Please  don't  go  away  again  " — and 
aa  I  kissed  her  she  was  gone. 

Her  curls  were  gold,  still  gold  though  she  was 
gone.  As  we  stood  weeping  beside  the  precious 
dust  the  sun  arose,  still  arose,  though  she  was  gone. 
And  his  first  errand  was  to  the  broken  heart.  Swift 
to  the  window  flew  his  first-flung  rays,  like  eager 
coviriers  who  hear  the  cry  of  n.ed.  And  enteriug  in 
unbidden,  they  set  God's  brighter  seal  of  love  upon  the 
golden  tresses.  Up  and  down  among  the  glowing 
strands,  they  wandered,  smiling  at  God's  gain,  smiling 
still,  though  she  was  gone.  Unafraid,  they  caressed 
the  unconscious  locks,  anointing  them  for  their  burial. 

When  I  went  out,  the  winter  seemed  past  and 
gone;  I  knew  then  what  made  these  snowbound 
hearts  so  warm. 


,1 


346        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 

"Marg  .ret  has  a  new  Borrow,"  aaid  my  wife,  soon 
after  my  arrival  home. 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  A  young  woman  and  her  child  from  Ireland  " — 

"  Yes,"  I  interrupted,  "  I  heard  about  it ;  the  driver 
told  me.  Does  Margaret  seem  to  fret  herself  about 
it?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  her  mother ;  "  but  I  am 
afraid  it  has  made  it  all  the  harder  for  us :  I  mean 
that  I  fear  that  she  is  more  devoted  to  him  now  than 
ever.  She  read  me  a  letter  Angus  wrote  her  just 
before  he  shut  himself  up  with  the  child." 

"  What  did  it  say  ?  "  I  asked,  with  eagerness. 

"  I  don't  remember  very  clearly ;  but  he  said  that 
this  woman  who  died  of  smallpox,  the  child's  mother, 
you  know,  had  opened  all  her  heart  to  him  before  she 
died.  And  he  says  there  never  was  a  gentler  or 
purer-hearted  woman  —  the  old  story,  of  love,  and 
trust,  and  anguish.  Then  he  said  he  promised  her  to 
care  for  her  boy;  and  he  said  something  about  his 
ordination  vows,  said  he  would  try  to  be  true  to 
them,  and  that  this  would  help  him  to  banish  revenge 
and  hatred  from  his  heart." 

"  His  ordination  vows  ? "  I  exclaimed  ;  "  what  do 
you  suppose  he  means  ?  Surely  he  is  not  trifling 
with  all  that  unhappy  occurrence  ? " 

"I  don't  think  so.  There  was  no  trifling  tone 
about  his  letter.  I  asked  Margaret  about  that  very 
thing,  but  she  wouldn't  tell  me,  only  she  said  there 


^^^_^ 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  SECOND  CALL       247 

WM  no  elder  in  St.  Cuthbert'a  more  ordained  to  God's 
service  than  Angus  is." 

"  Did  she  say  anything  about  their  love  affairs  ? ' 
said  I,  after  a  man's  poor  bungling  fashion. 

"Not  a  word — but  she  wouldn't  let  m^  see  the 
letter,"  this  with  a  little  womanly  sigh :  for  women, 
like  children,  have  griefs  that  appear  trifling  to  grown 
men,  but  are  very  real  to  them. 

After  a  pause  my  wife  ventured:  "Don't  you 
think  that  perhaps  we  are  just  a  little  unrelenting 
about  Margaret  and  Angus  ? " 

"What?"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  she  should  marry  him,  of 
course,  but  it  does  seem  hard,  father — and  it  really 
wasn't  his  fault — and  perhaps  we  will  regret  it  some 
day.- 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  know  it  is  impossible— think 
of  the  humiliation  of  it,  the  shame  of  it,  I  might  say." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  answereil,  "  but  I  do  admire 
Angus  more  and  more.  He  seems  to  be  trying  to 
stanch  his  sorrow,  only  he  does  it  by  love  and 
service.  Everybody  is  talking  about  how  useful  and 
unselfish  he  is,  in  the  church,  and  among  the  poor — 
and  everywhere." 

"  I  know  it,"  admitted  I,  "  I  know  it,  and  there  is 
no  reason  why  we  should  not  always  be  friends — 
but  the  other  is  an  entirely  different  matter.  It 
cannot  be." 

"  Well,"  went  on  m^  wife  •*  I  do  not  think  I  want 


ft^^fl 


,tr^ 


iMMttiiiiififi 


^^  ■• ' 


J 48        ST.  CUTIl BERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

to  Ptiiy  here ;  I  dnu't  Rtipjose  the  people  understand 
everytliinf^',  but  I  feel  snre  many  of  them  think  we 
are  dealing  harshly  with  Margivret  And  yet  they 
would  nearly  all  do  the  Bume.  What  kind  of  a 
manse  hove  they  in  Charlebton  ? "  she  concluded 
eagerly, — for  a  woman's  gift  of  transition  is  mar- 
vellous. 

Whereupon    I    told    her    all    about  my    Southern 
experiences  and  impressions. 


ill 


\  1 

^-1 


There  was  no  tumult  in  St.  Cuthbert's.  A  man 
who  knows  nothing  of  the  under-curreiits  in  the 
heart's  great  ocean  would  have  said  that  my  i)eople 
were  serenely  indillerent  as  to  whether  I  should  stay 
in  New  Jedburgh  or  go  to  Charleston.  There  was 
no  open  attempt  to  inOueuce  the  outcome,  for  they 
believed  in  the  sovereignty  of  God  and  would  not 
interfere — at  least  not  till  that  very  sovereignty  so 
constrained  them.  Of  course,  they  held  prayer  to  be 
a  legitimate  interference.  This  is  a  great  mystery, 
but  it  is  cherished  by  the  soul  as  persistently  as  it  is 
challenged  by  tha  reason.  Mysterious  though  this 
union  must  ever  be,  the  Scoitish  spirit  takes  full 
advantage  of  it,  and  enjoys  its  friut,  let  the  root  be 
hidden  as  it  may. 

"  Ye'll  be  givin'  us  yir  decision  some  o'  these  days," 
was  about  as  far  as  the  u'ost  emotional  would  go, 
some  even  adding :  "  Charleston's  a  graun'  city,  nae 
doot,  an'  I'm  hopin'  ye  il  like  it  fine  if  you  leave  us,' 


mmmmtmtk 


MM 


AA'i^  ' 


ST.  CUTHDERT'i^   SECOND   CALL        349 

which  last  proved  to  me  that  such  an  one  .seiTitlr 
prayed  for  my  remaining.  The  true  Scotchman  is  !ik(* 
the  Hebrew  langua^^'o — to  be  underBtood,  he  mu^t  be 
read  backwards. 

"  It's  a  graun'  chance  ye're  gettin',  to  bo  called  to 
sic  a  kirk  as  that,"  said  W'ultie  Gardner  one  day. 
"  I'ni  fearin'  ye'll  rue  it  if  ye  bide  wi'  us  here." 

Tliis  was  far  from  the  lan;,'uago  of  .inlent  wooing ; 
yet  I  noticed  that  this  same  Wottie  eou^'ht  to  reform 
his  ways,  that  they  might  tend  to  the  increase  of  my 
comfort.  lie  had  been  an  incorrigible  sleeper  in  the 
kirk,  surrendering  to  sweet  repose  with  the  announce- 
ment of  the  text,  and  emerging  therefrom  only  to 
join  the  closing  paraphrase  with  unembarrassed 
unction.  For  no  man  was  more  ready  with  a  verdict 
on  the  sermon  than  was  Wattie,  as  he  walked  down 
the  aisle ;  he  never  failed  to  demand  the  "  heads  and 
particulars "  from  his  family  at  the  dinner  -  table, 
resenting  all  imputation  of  somnolence  for  himself. 

His  defence  was  plausible,  since  he  never  slept 
exposed,  but  always  with  his  head  bowed  upon  the 
bookboard,  esteemed  by  the  uncharitable  as  the 
attitude  of  slumber,  but  explained  by  Wattie  as  the 
posture  of  undistracted  thought  and  pious  meditation. 

Shortly  after  my  call  to  diarleston,  however, 
Watwie  abandoned  this  pious  and  rellective  posture, 
sitting  bolt  upright,  beating  back  his  tendency  to 
thoughtful  retirement  with  the  aid  of  cloves  and 
peppermints.     I    knew    the   metniiiig   of   this   iciurm, 


H 


250       ST.  CUT/f BEATS  OF  THE   WEST 


\ 


4 


for  I  knew  Wattie's  love  for  me,  clandestine  though 
it  waa ;  he  and  I  had  watched  death  together  once — 
and  after  the  wave  had  overawept  us,  the  grovmd 
beneath    ur  feet  waa  firm  aa  rock  for  ever. 

By  and  by  St.  Cuthbert'a  began  to  move.  It  waa 
known  that  I  purpoaed  announcing  my  decision  on 
the  approachir  i  Sabbath  day,  and  I  was  informed 
that  one  or  tvsu  deputationa  wished  to  wait  upon  me 
at  the  mar  e.  The  first  waa  from  the  women  of  the 
church,  who  had  had  a  meeting  of  their  own. 

To  my  amiuement  the  apokeswoman  waa  Mrs. 
Goodall.  Now  it  must  be  told  that  thia  same  Mrs. 
Goodall,  in  all  sincerity  of  conscience,  had  violently 
withstood  my  advent  to  the  pastorate  of  St.  Cuthbert's 
ycara  before.  The  ground  of  her  opposition  waa  that 
I  plied  the  festive  pipe. 

Never  was  there  nobler  Christian  womanhood  than 
hers,  never  a  more  devoted  life,  never  a  more  loving 
heart  But  no  man's  character  could  be  fragrant,  so 
she  thought,  if  it  ripened  amid  the  rich  aroma  of 
tobacco ;  and  good  old  Virginia  leaf  was  to  her  the 
poison-ivy  of  mankind.  That  life  was  indeed  be- 
clouded which  found  shelter  in  the  genial  clouds  of 
the  aforesaid  leaf.  But  with  all  this  heroic  hostility 
to  our  little  weaknesses,  there  dwelt  a  sweet  strain  of 
innocence  in  which  we  had  come  to  glory. 

"  Ye  needn't  tell  me,"  said  the  good  Mrs.  Goodall 
once  to  a  sympathetic  circle,  "  that  they  dinna  play 
poker  at  the  taivem — an'  in  the  daytime  too — for  I 


iSK 


Sr.  CUTHBERT'S  SECOND   CALL        251 

passed  by  this  verra  day,  an'  they  were  pokin'  away, 
wi'  their  coats  off,  wi'  lang  sticks  in  their  hands, 
pokin'  at  the  weo  white  halls,"  and  her  listeneni 
needed  no  other  proof. 

The  dear  old  saint  made  lior  plea  for  those  she 
represented,  and  it  greatly  pleused  me,  for  I  loved 
her  well ;  and  I  lomembered  the  scores  and  hund  f^ds 
who  had  felt  the  power  of  her  godly  life.  Bee  lea, 
it  confirmed  me  in  this  assurance,  that,  after  ail  is 
said  and  done,  if  a  man  is  honestly  trying  to  do  his 
Master's  work,  even  those  most  sternly  net  against 
the  pipe  will  care  but  little  whether  or  not  he  .seeks 
the  comfort  it  undoubtedly  affords.  Whicli  very  thing 
had  been  proved  by  y  great  predecessor.  Dr.  Grant, 
half  a  century  agono. 

The  second,  and  larger,  deputation  was  composed 
of  ten  or  more,  appoi!;ted  to  represent  the  kirk  session 
and  the  board.  Of  this  latter  body,  the  principal 
spokesman  was  its  chairnim,  William  Collins,  an 
excerpt  from  Scl  cirkshiro  and  one  of  my  chieftst 
friends.  He  was  long,  very  long,  almost  six  feet 
three,  with  copious  hair  that  never  sank  to  rest,  and 
habitually  ado'-rjed  with  a  cravat  that  had  caught  the 
same  aspiring  spirit.  This  was  a  li'er  pcrjietually 
attachcfl. 

One  suit  of  clothes  uftor  another,  as  the  yenrs 
passed  by,  bore  witness  to  the  loyalty  of  his  heart; 
for  he  would  not  abandon  the  pre-historic  tailor  who 
w»s  a   sort  of   heirloom   in    the    Collins  family,      in 


iM 


tftt 


hi 


hi 


asa        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

consequence,  the  rise  and  fall  of  William's  coat,  in  ita 
caudal  parts,  as  he  walked  down  the  aisle  with  the 
plate  on  the  Sabbath  day.  had  become  part  of  St. 
Cuthbert's  ritual—and  we  all  thought  it  beautiful. 
He  was  one  of  the  two,  referred  to  in  the  opening  of 
our  story,  who  had  been  sent  to  spy  out  the  land,  and 
to  report  upon  the  propriety  of  my  conjugal  enter* 
prise.  The  fluent  panegyric  in  which  his  report  was 
made   is    already    recorded    and   need    not   be   here 

repeated. 

William  had  a  talent  for  friendship  beyond  that  of 
any  man  I  ever  knew,  and  this  talent  flowered  into 
genius  only  after  the  clock  struck  midnight.  Never 
yet  was  there  friend  who  would  stay  with  you  to  the 
last  Hke  WiUiara  Collind,  his  shortcomings  few,  hia 
long-stayingB  many  and  delicious. 

For  never  yet  was  friend  so  welcome,  never  speech 
more  sane  and  stimulating ;  never  farewell  so  sweetly 
innocent  when  the  clock  struck  two.  May  the  God 
of  friendship  bless  thee,  WilUam  Collins,  for  all  that 
thy  friendship  hath  been  to  me  !  And  if  these  Unes 
outlive  thee,  let  them  bear  witness  to  that  joy  which 
is  not  denied  to  the  humblest  man,  who  hath  but  a 
fireplace  and  a  friend  and  a  pipe— and  four  feet  on 
the  fender,  while  the  storm  howls  without.  For, 
with  alternate  zeal,  we  cast  the  blocks  upon  the  blaze 
—and  its  flame  never  faltered  till  thou  wert  gone, 

William,  as  ".hairman,  was  the  first  to  speak.     He 
presented  St.  Cuthbert's  case  with  dignity  and  force, 


ST.  CUTHBERT'S  SECOND   CALL        253 

beginning  with  the  tidings  that  the  board  wished  me 
henceforth  to  take  two  months'  holidays  instead  of 
one.  This  started  in  my  mind  a  swift  reflection  upon 
the  native  perversity  of  the  Scotch.  To  prove  that 
they  cannot  do  without  you,  they  lanisli  you  alto- 
gether for  an  extra  mouth,  hut  William  Collins  gave 
the  thing  a  more  graceful  turn. 

"  We  love  you  weel  eneuch  to  do  without  you — 
but  no'  for  lang,"  he  said. 

Then  he  concluded,  as  was  his  inviolate  custom, 
with  a  reference  to  Burns,  in  whom  he  had  sat  down 
and  risen  up  for  forty  years — 

"  I  canna  better  close  what  I  hae  to  sav."  he  as- 
sured  me,  "  than  by  the  use  o'  the  ploughboy's  words. 
slightly  changed  for  the  occasion — 


*  Better  lo'ed  ye  canua  be, 

Will  ye  no'  abide  at  barnet'" 

With  this  he  reached  behind  liim  (this,  too,  a 
time-honoured  custom),  seized  the  aforesaid  caudal 
parts  of  his  coat,  removed  them  from  the  path  of 
descending  danger,  and  lowered  hLs  stalwart  form 
with  easy  diguity,  his  kindly  eyes  aglow  with  friend- 
ship's light. 

David  Carrick  was  the  next  to  speak.  Cautious 
and  severe,  his  chief  aim  was  to  express  the  hope 
that  I  was  sincere  in  my  indecision. 

"We  had  a  sair  shock  wi'  a  former  minister  long 
years  ago,"  he  said ;  "  he  hud  a  call,  like  yirsel',  but  he 


254        Sr.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 


I 


aye  kept  puttin'  us  off,  tellin'  us  he  was  aye  seekin 
licht  frae  above ;  but  Sandy  Eutherford  saw  an  or'uary 
licht  in  the  manse  ae  nicht  after  twal  o'clock.  He 
peekit  in  the  window,  an'  he  saw  the  minister  wi' 
his  coat  off,  packin'  up  the  things.  The  twa  lichta 
kin'  o'  muddled  him,  ye  ken." 

His  colleagues  may  have  thought  David  unneces- 
sarily severe.  In  any  case  several  of  them  began 
signalling  to  Geordie  Bickell  to  take  the  floor. 
Geordie  responded  with  much  modesty  and  misgiving, 
for  he  was  the  saintliest  man  amongst  us;  and  his 
own  estimate  o\  himself  was  in  direct  antagonism  to 

ours. 

"  We  willna  urge  ye,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  winsome 
smile,  "  hut  I'm  sure  the  maist  of  us  hae  been  pleadin' 
hard  afore  a  higher  court  than  this.  A'  I  want  to 
tell  ye  is  this — there  hasna  been  wound  or  bruise 
upon  yir  relation  to  yir  people.  An'  there's  but  ae 
hairt  amongst  us,  an'  we're  giein'  ye  anither  call  this 
day — an'  we're  hopin'  it's  the  will  o'  God." 

The  interview  was  almost  closed,  when  a  voice  was 
herird  from  the  back  of  the  room,  a  very  eager  voice, 
and  charged  with  the  import  of  its  message — 

"It's  Diebbe  no'  worth  menliouin',"  said  Archie 
Blackwood,  a  fiery  Scot  whose  father  had  fought  at 
Balaclava,  "  but  it's  gey  important  for  a'  that.  Gin 
ye  should  gang  to  Charleston  ye'll  hae  to  sing  sma'  on 
their  Fourth  o'  July,  for  tliat's  their  screechin'  time, 
they  tell  me ;  an'  ye  wudna  hae  a  psalm  frae  year's 


ST.  CUTHBERTS  SECOND  CALL        ,55 

end  to  year's  end  to  wet  yir  burnin'  lips— an'  ye 
wadna  ken  when  it  was  the  Twenty-fourth  o'  May. 
They  tell  me  they  haena  kept  the  Tweaty-fourth  0' 
May  in  Ameriky  since  1776."  Archie  knew  his  duty 
better  than  his  dates. 

I  assured  him  of  the  importance  of  his  warnings, 
and  acknowledged  the  various  deprivations  he  had 
foretold. 

"Juist  ae  word  afore  we  paixt,"  suddenly  inter- 
jected a  humble  little  elder  who  had  never  been 
known  to  speak  before.  "It's  in  my  conscience,  an' 
I  want  to  pit  it  oot.  We  a'  ken  fine  we  haena  been 
ower  regular  at  the  prayer  meetin';  but  we'll  try 
to  dae  better  in  the  time  to  come.  It's  deathbed 
repentance,  I  ken,  but  it's  better  than  nane." 

One  by  one  the  delegates  shook  hands  with  me 
and  withdrew,  after  I  had  promised  them  as  early  a 
pronouncement  aa  my  still  unsettled  mind  could  hope 
to  give.  After  they  had  gone,  I  eat  Icng  by  myself, 
pondering  all  that  had  been  said,  looking  for  light 
indeed,  but  striving  to  quench  all  other  beams  than 
those  whose  radiance  was  from  above. 

While  thus  employed,  a  feeble  footfall  was  heard 
upon  the  steps,  and  a  gentle  knocking  called  me  to 
the  door.  It  was  no  other  than  little  Issie's  grand- 
father who  stood  before  me. 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  I  said  cordially,  for  he  was 
dear   to  me,  and   we    had    the   bond   of  a  common 
*'Have  you  forgotten  something?" 


801  low. 


i  I 


356        Sr,  CUTHBERT*S  OF  THE    WEST 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  but  I  hae  minded  something. 
I  didna  speak  when  a'  the  ithers  spoke ;  but  I  want 
to  tell  ye  something  by  yirsel'.  I  think  ye  ought  to 
ken.     It  has  to  dae  wi'  yir  decision. 

"  Ye  mind  wee  Issie  ?  Well,  the  momin'  ye  came 
back  frae  Charleston  she  was  lyin'  white  an'  still  on 
the  pillow.  She  hadna  spoke  a'  through  the  nicht, 
an'  we  a'  thocht  she  wad  speak  nae  mair — but  at  six 
o'clock  yir  train  blew  afore  it  came  into  the  station. 
An'  wee  Issie  stirred  on  the  pillow.  Her  lips  moved, 
an'  I  pit  doon  my  ear. 

"'He'll  be  on  that  train,'  she  whispered  low. 
•  Wha'll  be  on  the  train  ? '  1  uskit  her.  '  The  minister,' 
was  a'  she  said. 

"  I  was  alaue  wi'  her,  an'  I  said  :  '  Mebbe  so,  Issie.' 
Then  she  spoke  nae  mair  for  a  little,  but  soon  she 
said :  '  God  '11  bring  him  back  to  open  the  gate  for 
me  before  1  go.  Grandfather,'  she  said,  '  he  first  told 
me  of  the  gate,  and  he  said  I  would  find  it  beautiful 
when  I  got  close — and  so  it  is — but  I  want  him  to 
push  it  farther  open,  for  I  am  so  weak  and  tired. 
I'm  sure  God  will  bring  him  home  in  time.'" 

My  eyes  were  wet,  and  I  could  only  take  the  old 
man's  hand  in  mine,  the  silent  token  that  the  greatest 
argument  of  all  had  been  kept  until  the  last 

"There's  mair  of  us,"  he  said,  as  tlie  sobs  shook 
his  feeble  frame;  "there's  mair  of  us  wha's  comin' 
near  the  gate.  I'm  no'  far  frae  it  mysel'.  An'  I 
want  ye  to  wait  my  turn ;  I  want  ye  to  bide  wi'  us 


ST.  CUTHBERTS  SECOND  CALL 


257 


fciU  ye  Bee  me  througlj  the  gate.     A  stranger  wadua 
be  the  sama     I  maun  be  gaun." 

It  is  long  now  since  Issie's  grandfather  followed 
her  through  the  gate.  He  too  found  it  beautiful; 
for  I  walked  with  him  till  even  I  could  see  its  glory. 
It  swung  wide  open,  for  he  was  welcome  home ;  and 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  splendour  just  beyond.  I 
heard,  too,  rapturous  snatches  of  the  song  they  sing 
in  that  better  land.  It  may  have  been  fancy,  yet  I 
am  sure  I  heard  the  old  precentor's  voice,  and  Issie's 
holy  strain  was  clearer  still ;  but  it  was  the  new  song 
and  these  two  blended  wondrous  well 


XXVI 


love's  singing  SAORinCl 


ill' 


JQEATH  is  kinder  than  we  think.  None  other 
knew  the  way  by  which  the  little  foundling's 
tnother  had  gone  forth.  But  Death  knew  it  well, 
having  often  passed  over  it  before ;  and  the  orphan's 
cry  was  more  than  he  could  bear.  So  he  took  him 
in  his  kindly  arms  and  bore  him  on  to  his  mother, 
smiling  at  the  cruel  names  by  which  he  was  accus^ 
tomed  to  be  called. 

It  is  Death's  way  to  take  the  jewel  only,  for  the 
road  is  long;  and  who  wUl  may  have  the  casket 
Wherefore  the  affrighted  undertaker  bore  the  latter 
by  night  to  its  resting-place ;  for  he  knew  that  path, 
and  had  often  trodden  it  before.  But  he  was  not 
a  deep-sea  pilot,  like  the  other. 

Angus  was  left  alone.  A  faithful  man,  himself  a 
smallpox  graduate,  was  his  only  companion.  Strict 
care  was  kept  before  the  door  of  the  now  deserted 
house,  for  panic  hath  its  home  in  the  heart  of  that 
dread  disease,  though  not  so  dreadful  as  we  think. 

Some  of  the  misguided  folk  of  New  Jedburgh  fumi- 


..3*' 


LOVE'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE 


»59 


gated  themselves  at  every  mention  of  Angus's  name, 
sleeping  meantime  side  by  side  with  some  consump- 
tive form,  knowing  not  that  death  slept  between 
them.  But  the  great  science  of  life  is,  and  hath 
ever  been,  the  recognition  of  life's  real  enemies. 

Angus  was  alone — and  fallen.  The  foundlin^''8 
plague  was  upon  him,  and  there  was  none  to  care  for 
him  but  the  faithful  servant,  smallpox-proof  as  he 
happily  knew  himself  to  ba 

The  very  night  of  the  poor  waif's  hasty  burial,  a 
note  was  handed  in  at  our  kitchen  door.  It  was 
from  the  health  officer  of  New  Jedbiu^h. 

"  Can  you  find  a  nurse  for  Mr.  Strachan  ? "  it  nn. 
"  He  has  no  one  with  him  but  Foster,  who  has  had 
the  disease,  and  I  need  not  tell  you  the  necessity  for 
a  woman's  cara  I  have  tried  the  hospital,  but  no 
nurse  will  volunteer.  Whoever  goes,  of  course,  will 
be  under  quarantine,  as  the  guard  has  ordere  to  let  no 
one  enter  or  leave  the  house.  Perhaps  you  may  know 
of  some  pjor  wouj  a,  or  some  kind  of  woman,  who 
will  undertake  the  duty.  If  you  do,  I  have  orderta 
the  guard  to  let  her  into  the  house  on  presentation 
of  this  note." 

My  wife  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  study  when  the 
letter  was  lianded  to  me.  i  v  11  run  down  to  Mrs. 
Barrie's,"  I  said,  after  long  i'iin:  aig.  "  She  is  not  so 
much  of  a  nurse,  but  she  is  less  of  a  coward ;  and  I 
know  she  has  taken  care  of  diphtheria." 

"I  will  walk  down  witJj  )l.u,"  said  my  wife:  "per- 


i 


wmsfs* 


?'5o        Sr.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    IVEST 

l)-ips  a  woman's  infliienoe  won't  be  amiss  on  each  an 
errand." 

We  were  soon  ready  and  went  out  into  the  winter 
night. 

"  Isn't  that  too  bad  ? "  I  suddenly  exclaimed,  as  we 
were  turning  into  Mrs.  Barrie'a  house.  -  T  have  for- 
gotten  that  letter— and  the  health  officer  says  that 
whoever  goes  must  have  it  Shall  we  go  back  for  it  ? " 
"  Not  at  all ;  she  would  have  retired  before  we  get 
back.  And  in  any  case  she  would  not  go  till  the 
morning,  and  you  can  give  it  to  her  before  that," 
said  my  long-tried  adviser. 
"Very  W;  :,  let  us  go  in." 

We  had  left  Margaret  at  home.  She  was  often 
absent  from  our  study  fire,  not  in  peevishness  or 
gloom,  for  they  were  foreign  to  her  nature,  but  still 
she  bore  evidence  of  her  great  renunciation. 

As  I  hav?  said,  she  was  much  alone,  deeming  it,  I 
doubt  not,  due  to  her  lover  that  she  should  share  his 
solitude,  even  if  separately  borne.  She  «ought  to  fill 
trp  that  which  was  behind  of  the  sufferings  of  the  man 
she  loved.  This  I  make  no  doubt  was  her  secret 
delight ;  for  only  a  woman  knows  the  process  of  that 
joy  which  ia  exhaled  when  sorrow  and  love  flow 
mingled  down. 

Margaret  had  not  been  beside  our  study  fire  that 
winter  night.  But  on  our  departure  she  came  down 
from  her  half-widowed  room  to  sit  beside  it.  It  wm 
the  same  hearth  she  had  kindled  in  other  days  '•  in 


M 


LOVE'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE 


961 


expectation  of  a  guest."  As  she  entered  the  room,  her 
eye  fell  upon  the  note  which  I  had  left  lying  in  my 
chair.  A  glance  at  it  revealed  to  her  Angus's  name. 
It  was  soon  perused,  and  it  needed  to  be  read  but 
once.  Swift  action  followed,  for  there  is  no  such 
thinker  as  the  heart ;  and  if  women  were  on  the  Bench 
to-morrow,  "  Judgment  reserved  "  would  vanish  from 
our  judicial  records. 

Margaret's  decision  was  taken  before  she  laid  the 
letter  down,  and  a  flush  of  eager  joy  glowed  on  her 
face.  In  a  moment  she  was  back  in  her  room, 
quickly  moving  here  and  there,  gathering  this  and 
that  together,  bending  ov^er  a  small  travelling-bag  that 
lay  upon  the  bed.  Her  ruling  thought  was  one  of 
gladness,  even  joy — and  the  traveller's  joy  at  that. 
Who  does  not  know  the  sudden  thrill  of  rapture  when 
there  comes  to  us  a  sudden  simimous  to  a  long  and 
unexpected  journey  ? 

And  Margaret  was  starting  on  a  long  journey,  how 
long  only  God  could  telL  She  thought  of  this  as  she 
glanced  about  the  pretty  room  that  had  shared  her 
secret  thoughts  since  childhood,  that  had  seen  the 
awaking  of  her  love,  and  had  oftentimes  kept  with 
her  the  vigil  of  unsleeping  joy.  More  than  once  the 
poor  little  room  had  feared  it  was  soon  to  be  out- 
grown, and  left  far  behind;  but  still  at  night 
Margaret  would  return  to  its  pure  protection,  and 
still  it  knew  the  fragrance  of  a  virgin's  trembling 
love. 


a62        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 


\ 


She  was  almust  through  the  door  when  she  turned 
once  again  and  bade  it  a  long  farewell,  the  Bame  as  a 
niaideu  ou  her  bridal  morn.  For  she  too  was  on  her 
way  to  an  aluir ;  and  the  vows  for  sickness  or  health, 
for  life  or  djaih,  Beemed  to  be  uj)Ou  her  now. 

She  had  got  as  far  as  the  garden  gate  when  she 
Btupped  suddenly. 

"  1  have  forgotten  the  letter,"  she  said  to  herself. 
Layiiig  her  travelling-bag  upon  the  ground,  she  ran 
swiftly  back ;  but  the  door  had  locked  behind  her,  and 
her  latch-key  was  in  her  room. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  What  shall  I  do  ? "  she  cried 
to  herself.  "  I  cannot  got  in  without  the  letter,  and 
they  will  soon  be  back." 

She  tlew  along  the  verandah  to  a  window  and 
pressed  it  upward.  It  }t elded,  and  her  joy  flowed 
like  a  river.  Up  she  flung  it,  far  up,  and  with  a 
bound  the  active  form  was  upon  the  sill  and  dis- 
appeared into  the  room.  The  letter  lay  where  she 
had  left  it,  and  in  a  moment  the  precious  passjiort 
was  in  its  hiding-place.  A  moment  later,  the  gate 
swung  shut  behind  her.  Her  bosom  throbbed  with 
a  new  courage  as  it  felt  the  touch  of  the  letter  vhat 
was  entrusted  to  its  keeping ;  for  this  was  her  warrant, 
her  pledge  of  passage  ou  that  long  iourney  towards 
which  she  pressed  so  eagerly.  Oh,  woman !  who 
countest  pestilence  thy  friend  when  it  is  in  league 
with  love  ! 

On  she  pressed,  on  through  the  frosty  night     The 


M-.. 


i  «.«.*H«il 


ZONE'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE 


«63 


snow  made  inusio  beneath  ho.  hurrying  fest,  the 
bridge  by  which  she  crossed  the  river  cracked  and 
echoed  with  the  frost,  and  the  Northern  lights  flashed 
the  signals  of  their  heavenly  mj  sonry — for  whut  knew 
they  of  plague  (\nd  love  and  sorrow,  and  of  the  story 
of  this  poor  tracing-board  of  time  ? 

But  Margaret  never  thought  of  this,  for  she  too 
had  her  own  secret  symbols,  and  her  heart  its  own 
mighty  language,  voiced,  like  the  othti'a,  in  alternate 
floods  of  light  and  gloom. 

She  never  paused  till  she  was  challenged  by  the 
guard  before  the  plague-struck  house.  Then  she  laid 
down  her  travelling-bag,  for  it  had  grown  lieiivy ;  but 
her  eyes  never  turned  from  the  dim  light  that  shone 
from  the  window.  Love  and  danger  were  there,  and 
the  fascination  of  both  was  upon  her. 

"  Where  might  you  be  goin',  miss  ?  "  said  the  guard. 
His  voice  was  thick,  and  his  breath  bore  a  perfuiue 
which  proved  he  had  been  hospitably  entreated  by 
some  sympathetic  friend.  Doubtless  it  was  the  Good 
Samaritan's  wine  that  had  failed  of  its  destination. 

"  I  am  going  into  that  house,  if  you  please,"  replied 
Margaret.  "  I  am  going  to  take  care  of  Mr.  Strachaii. 
The  health  officer  has  asked  for  a  nurse." 

"  Oh  no,  my  lady,"  said  the  guard ;  "  no  pretty  face 
like  yours  is  going  to  be  marked  by  the  smallpox." 
His  chivalry  was  of  the  moist  kind,  and  his  emotion 
made  him  hiccough  several  times. 

Margaret  winced.     "  I  am  entitled  to  go  in,"  she 


Li 


a64        57:  CUTHBERrS  OF  THE    WEST 

said  boldly,  "  and  I  will  thank  you  to  let  nie  pasF," 
with  which  she  picked  up  her  valise. 

"  Not  by  no  Tn.eans,"  the  guard  rejoined.  "  I've  got 
ordera  not  to  let  no  one  in  without  a  letter  from  the 
officer." 

"  1  have  the  letter,"  said  Margaret,  for  in  her  ex- 
citement she  had  forgotten  it.  She  produced  it  and 
handed  it  to  the  man.  He  walked  o\r  to  a  gas 
lamp  acro8H  the  street.  Feeling  the  nee  i  of  exercise, 
he  proceeded  tliereto  by  severnl  dilV(  rent  routes. 
Having  reached  it,  he  was  seized  wii.h  a  great  fear 
lost  the  iron  post  should  fall,  and  kit  iiimstdf  to  ita 
support.  Then  he  read  the  letter  ovv^r  alo'ui ;  three 
or  four  times  he  read  it,  punctuating  it  .hrcu^ihout 
with  the  aforesaid  tokens  of  emotion.  lie  returned 
to  where  she  stood,  selecting  several  new  paths  with 
fine  originality. 

"  I  guess  that's  all  right,  an'  you're  the  party,"  he 
remarked,  "  but  it  ain't  signed." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  said  Margaret  in  alarm. 
"  It  certiiinly  bears  the  health  officer's  name.  I  saw 
it  myself." 

"  Oh  yes,  that's  all  right,  but  that  ain't  enough — 
business  is  business,  you  see,"  he  added,  with  maudlin 
solemnity.  "  You've  got  to  sign  it  yourself,  kind  of 
receipt  the  bill,  you  see." 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  a  pencil,  produced 
the  nimp  thereof,  spread  the  letter  upon  his  knee, 
and  began  writing  on  the  back  of  it     It  was  like  an 


LOVE'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE 


.65 


internal  Burpcal  ojieration,  for  his  tongue  protruded 
as  he  wrote,  marking  hia  progress  by  a  series  of 
serpentine  writbings  tbat  suggested  inward  pain. 

"  There,  that'll  do,"  ho  said,  when  he  emerged. 
"You  sign  that" 

Margaret  took  the  paper  and  tvied  to  read  what  hf 
had  written.  But,  unfamiliar  with  liieroglyphics,  his 
handiwork  was  lost  upon  her. 

"  I  cannot  read  it,"  siie  stiia  presently ;  "  th'j  light  i^ 
very  had." 

"  That's  BO — besides,  it's  too  infernal  cold  to  read — 
I'm  awful  cold.  I  wisht  that  cove  in  there'd  get  a 
move  on  him,  an'  get  better.  He's  got  a  snap. 
Someone  sent  him  a  bottle  of  milk  to-day  too,"  he 
concluded,  with  a  solemn  wink,  the  tongue  again  ap- 
pearing on  the  scene  to  bear  internal  witness — '"  but 
I  forgot — i'!-»  tf.'d  them  words  to  you  myself,"  which 
he  pv'.x.Mxieu  •;  <io,  swaying  gently,  for  the  spirit  of 
rhetoi  c  w \.^'  v*;!...  i  him. 

"'.;..  i,;-    ■;  ■    i.':   began:   "'I'm    the   party  what's 
mea  )■       r ..    '  I'c  uian  what's  got  the  smallpox,  an 
1  gut  J.:    'v.   '   ./anted  to' — that's  all  right,  ain't 
it ?     Novt    .  gj  that,  an'  if  you  die,  that'll  pro- 

tect me  after  you're  dead.  And  I'll  sign  it  too ;  and 
if  I  die,  it'll  protect  you  after  I'm  dead — see  T  And  if 
we  both  die,  it'll  protect  the  officer  after  we're  both 
dead — see  ?  And  if  he  dies,  then  we'll  all  be  protected, 
because  we'll  all  be  dead — see  ?  You  keep  the  paper, 
and  I'll  keep  the  pencil,  and  we'll  both  keep  our  job 


,66        ST.  CUTHBERrS  OF  THE   WEST 

—see?     Gee  whittaker!     Ain't   it   cold?     I  wisht 
they'd  send  some  more  milk." 

Impatient  for  a  release,  Margaret  signed  the  docu- 
ment. After  its  author  had  made  another  picturesque 
pilgrimage  to  the  gas  lamp  and  back  again,  the 
signature  was  fervently  commended,  with  signs  of 
increasing  emotion;  he  returned  the  letter  to  her 
—and  she  passed  on  into  the  house  at  which  none 
but  Love  or  Death   would   have  asked  for  bed  and 

board. 

There  are  a  thousand  streams  that  flow  from  Cal- 
vary. But  the  deepest  of  these  is  joy.  Wherefore 
as  Margaret  walked  into  the  darkened  house  her 
heart  thrUled  with  a  sudden  rapture  it  had  never 
known  before.  For  he  was  there— and  she  would  be 
beside  him  in  a  moment— and  they  would  be  together 

and  none  could  break  in  upon  them,  for  grim  Death 

himself  would  guard  the  door.  He  was  helpless  too, 
dependent  on  weak  arms  that  love  would  gird  with 
might— and  this  makes  a  woman's  happiness  com- 
plete. When  Love  and  Service  wed,  Joy  is  their 
first-bom  child. 

She  was  now  standing  at  the  door  of  his  room,  her 
eyes  fixed  u;>on  the  face  of  the  man  she  loved,  radiant 

with  victory. 

He  had  heard  her  footfall  from  the  threshold,  and 
his  heart  clutched  each  one  as  it  fell.  Yes,  it  was 
she,  and  the  music  of  her  rustling  garments  had  the 
sweet  sound  oi  rain — for  his  was  the  thirsty  heart. 


■I 


LOVE'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE 


267 


It  was  surely  she,  and  not  another — and  the  wholo 
meaning  of  life  seemed  clear  to  him.  He  knew  not 
how  or  why,  but  he  had  been  alone  so  long,  and  his 
hungry  heart  had  wondered,  and  life  seemed  such  a 
woimded  thing. 

But  now  he  actually  saw  those  silken  strands, 
gently  waving  from  her  haste,  and  the  parted  lips 
that  poured  forth  her  soul's  deep  loyalty,  and  the 
dear  form  of  ardent  love  —  a  maiden's  form.  All 
thesa  came  upon  him  like  the  dawn,  and  the  citadel 
of  life's  frowning  mystery  was  stormed  at  last.  How 
voluptuous,  after  all,  in  its  holiest  sense,  is  God's 
purpose  for  the  pure  in  heart  1 

She  stood,  her  eyes  now  suffused  with  tears,  but 
smiling  still ;  the  panic  in  her  father's  house,  the 
comment  of  cruel  tongues,  the  fight  with  death,  the 
pestilence  that  walks  in  darkness — these  were  all 
forgotten  in  the  transport  of  her  soul.  She  had 
chosen  her  Gethsemane  long  ago,  and  this  was  its 
harvest- time. 

Angus's  eyes  drank  deeply  from  the  spring. 

"Margaret,"  he  said  at  last,  "how  beautiful  God 
ig  I " — and  Margaret  understood. 

She  advanced  towards  the  bed,  her  hands  out- 
stretched— he  sought  to  bid  her  back. 

"  Margaret,  you  know  not  what  you  do  ;  your  life  " — 
But  it  was  in  vain. 

"  My  life  is  my  love,"  she  cried,  with  defiant  passion. 
"Oh,  Angus,  how  beautiful  God  is!"    and,  stooping 


•68        57!  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

down,  she  overpowered  him,  spuming  de'xth  while  love 
should  claim  its  own.  t^ 

As  she  stood  above  him  again,  her  lips  were  moist 
with   love's   anointing,  and  she    knew  that   nothing 
could  prevail  against  them  now.     Hers  the  promised 
power  that  could  take  up  serpents,  and  drink  deadly 
things,  and  be  unharmed.     Hers  the  commission  to 
lay  hands  on  the  sick  that  they  might  recover.     Ker 
sombre  foes  seemed  many :  shame  clouded  the  name 
she  fain  would    bear,  opposition    frowned    from    the 
faces  of  those  who    bore    her,  and    now  plague  liad 
joined  the  conspiracy — but  in  all  these  things  she 
was  more  than  conqueror. 


The  winter  had  retreated  before  the  conquering 
spring,  and  the  vanquished  pestilence  had  also  fled 
when  they  came  forth  again,  these  prisoners  of  love. 
Nearly  four  long  luscious  weeks  had  flown,  and  their 
souls'  bridal  time  was  past.  They  had  baffled  death 
together ;  and  they  came  forth,  ee.ch  with  the  great 
experience — each  with  the  unstained  heart 

Angus  bore  a  scar,  only  one,  as  the  legacy  of  pes- 
tilence— but  it  could  be  clearly  seen,  and  it  was  on 

his  brow. 

"  My  life  seems  doomed  to  these  single  scars,"  he 
had  said,  not  bitterly,  during  one  of  the  sweet  con- 
valescent days. 

"But  not  through  any  fault  of  yours,  dear  one," 
Margaret  had  answered.     "  I  have  the  same  wounds 


LOVE'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE  269 

mark  for  mark,  but  they  are  in  my  heart,"  and  she 
kissed  his  brovj,  ordained  to  another  burden. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  said  Margaret.  He  had 
heard  tho  words  before,  and  rich  memories  came  back. 
The  freedom  of  the  world  was  theirs;  for  they  had 
been  absolved  from  the  stigma  of  disease,  and  the 
sentinel  had  ceased  from  his  labours. 

"  I  must  go  home  now,"  she  c  ouiinued,  "  for  it  will 

soon  be  dark  " 

"I  had  forgotten  about  darkness,"  said  Angus. 
"Come  with  me.     1  want  to  do   Humething  for  my 

mother's  sake." 

"  Your  mother's  sake  ' "  she  repeated.  "  Did  your 
mother  ever  i^now  the  poor  woman  who  died  of  the 
disease  ?  or  her  little  child  ?      Did  you  care  for  them* 

for  her  sake  ? " 

"  I  cared  for  them  for  her  sake."  Angus  answered, 
"but  my  mother  never  knew  her;  they  Uved  in 
different  countries— but    their  sorrows  were  related. 

Let  us  tm-n  here." 

They  turned  off  into  a  quiet  street,  and  ^  -'^Pntly 
entered  the  old  stone-cutter's  shop.  Angus  spoke  10 
him  apart  for  a  time ;  finally  the  old  man  said— 

"  Perhaps  you'd  better  write  it  down." 

"  Very  well.  I  will,"  repUed  Angus. 

The  old  stone-cutter  adjusted  hifi  glasses :  "  Nothiu' 
on  the  big  stone  about  her  age  ? " 

"  No,  nothing,"  answered  AiiguB. 

"  Nor  uoihin'  about  her  folks  ? " 


J  70        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

"  No,  nothing,"  said  Angus  again. 

"  And  nothin'  on  the  little  stone,  only  this  ? " 

"  Nothing  more,"  said  the  other. 

"  All  right,  sir,  I  understand,  then.  The  big  stone 
is  just  to  have :  '  Luke  vii.  47 :  For  she  loved  much,' 
and  the  little  one :  '  My  brother.'  All  right,  I'll  set 
'em  up  to-morrow ;  only  I  kind  o'  thought  it  didn't 
give  a  terrible  lot  of  information.  But  I  suppose  you 
know  the  meanin'  of  it." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  man  with  the  mark  upon 
his  brow. 


11 


11 


f%:iiJ^ 


XX  VII 


THE   HIDDEN    CRUCIFIX 


WE  had  only  one  incurable  sorrow  in  St.  Cutbbert's 
manae.  That,  of  course,  had  to  do  with 
Margaret  and  her  love — for  whoro  would  heal  sorrow 
must  find  a  cure  for  love.  We  could  not  find  it  in 
our  hearts  to  give  her  up  to  a  union  so  wounding  to 
our  pride  as  her  marriage  to  Angua  would  have  been. 
The  righteous  will  have  cried  out  long  ego  agamst  this 
unseemly  spirit  on  the  part  of  a  gospel  minister.  But 
my  only  care  is  to  set  down  things,  myself  among 
them,  as  they  really  were. 

Besides,  it  is  easy  to  prescribe  sacrifices  for  another, 
or  even  for  one's  self,  provided  always  that  they  be 
made  before  the  necessity  arises.  All  parents  are 
models  in  their  treatment  of  each  other's  offspring, 
rivalling,  in  this  regard,  even  those  proverbial  patterns 
who  never  took  the  initial  step  to  parentage. 

Our  relations  with  Margaret  were  happy  enough, 
marked  by  love  and  tenderness  as  of  yore.  We 
were  deliberately  cheerful,  and  at  times  even  resolutely 
gay.     But  our  house  had  its  skeleton  closet,  and  each 


212        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

of  as  kept  a  key.  Apart  from  this,  all  our  home 
was  bright  Other  wounds  had  healed.  Margaret  was 
home  again,  a  ad  she  had  been  kept  from  the  scourge's 
awful  breath.  I  had  accepted  St.  Cuthberfs  second 
call,  and  I  felt  as  though  my  pastorate  had  begun 
anew ;  for  young  and  old  gathered  about  me,  and  the 
chariot  wheels  rolled  gladly. 

Yet  one  dear  and  long-honoured  face  was  absent ;  and 
one  seat  in  St.  Cuthberfs.  long  occupied  by  a  familiar 
form,  was  vacant  now.  For  Michael  Blake  had  gone. 
Silently,  without  teUing  us  why  or  where,  he  had 
departed,  although  tho  heart  of  all  New  Jedburgh 
seemed  warm  to  him,  and  although  St  Cuthberfs 
had  given  him  its  pledge  of  continued  confidence. 
But  he  had  steadfastly  refused  to  resume  the  duties 
of  his  office. 

This  was  almost  a  sorer  wound  to  us  than  the 
other;  for  we  somehow  could  not  but  construe  it  as 
the  coUapse  of  shame.  He  shirks  the  discipline  of 
God,  we  said,  or  thought ;  and  some  even  voiced  the 
darksome  fear  that  he  had  cast  off  the  restraints  of 
his  office,  done  with  religion  when  he  could  no 
longer  wear  its  mask.  He  would  be  a  saint,  said 
some,  or  nothing.  The  rSle  of  the  pubUcan  has  no 
charm  for  him,  said  others,  because  he  never  really 
knew  its  luxuriea  And  some  were  secretly  angry 
that  he  had  escaped,  as  they  chose  to  term  it,  for  they 
loved  to  see  the  scarlet  letter  on  another's  breast 


^^'^^mmamm 


iT^Jitir 


THE  HIDDEN  CRUCIFIX 


«73 


It  was  one  of  the  first  genial  days  of  early  spring 
and  an  ocean  steamer  was  swiftly  making  for  the 
Mersey.  The  green  fields  of  the  initial  isle  had  been 
declared  the  greenest  of  God's  green  earth,  and  they 
received  the  panegyric  with  national  complacency, 
knowing  not  that  they  had  three  thousand  miles  of 
grassless  ocean  to  thank  for  it  every  bit  The 
fragrance  of  the  land  was  sweet  to  the  weary 
voyagers,  and  the  most  taciturn  was  disposed  to 
unwonted  mirth.  The  captain,  question-driven,  had 
taken  wing  and  soared  aloft,  looking  down  in  safety 
from  the  bridge. 

But  neither  mirth  nor  gladness  was  upon  the  face 
of  one  traveller,  though  no  face  was  turned  moie 
intently  towards  the  shore.  Sadness  of  heart  and 
seriousness  of  purpose  were  there  instead,  not 
unmixed  with  light ;  for  memory  and  hope,  tliese  old- 
world  combatants,  had  joined  battle  in  his  soul. 

His  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  still  distant  land,  and 
varying  emotions  played  upon  his  face.  This  very 
shore  enclosed  all  whose  memory  filled  his  life  with 
shame  and  sorrow — within  it,  therefore,  by  God's 
unchanging  law.  must  be  found  their  relief  and  cure. 
For  the  serpent's  bite,  the  healing  is  the  serpent  still, 
but  lifted  high. 

This  man,  so  silent  and  self-contained,  had  been 
the  centre  of  much  curious  wonder  among  his  fellow- 
passengers.  Much  apart  he  had  been,  unmingled 
with    the    ship's    social    life,  despite  all    allurement. 


^ 


i 


Mi 


p. 


ii 


274        ST.  CVTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

The  children  called  him  blessed,  for  he  had  entered 
with  their  own  relish  into  all  their  games,  and  wl)en 
these  palled,  he  had  brought  forth  things  new  and  old 
out  of  the  treasure  of  his  mind.  The  aged  and  ailing 
were  his  almost  worshippers,  for  he  had  made  their 
wants  his  diily  care. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  part,  Mr.  Blake,  although  we  have 
seen  so  little  of  you  on  the  voyage.  One  has  to  be 
quite  young,  or  quite  sick,  or  quite  old,  to  see  much  of 
you  aboard  ship." 

"You  have  neither  of  the  last  two  qualifica- 
tions," answered  the  man  addressed,  with  a  pleasant 
smile. 

The  voice  which  had  broken  in  upon  his  reverie 
was  that  of  a  lady  past  middle  life,  richly  and  fashion- 
ably dressed ;  for  you  never  know  the  real  plumage 
of  fair  travellers  till  they  are  about  to  leave  you. 
She  was  beautifully  enamelled,  powdered,  massaged, 
and  otherwise  put  in  the  best  possible  repair.  Spark- 
ling diamonds  adorned  her  hands.  A  gold  cross  hung 
upon  her  bosom. 

"Nor  the  first  one  either,  I  fear,"  she  rejoined. 
"  However,  I  am  trying  to  keep  as  young  as  I  can. 
I  do  wish  we  were  at  Liverpool  There  is  to  be  a 
bridge  party  at  one  of  my  friends'  this  afternoon  and 
a  military  ball  to-night,  and  I  had  counted  on  getting 
in  for  both.  I  accepted  from  New  York  !  I  am  not 
thinking  so  much  about  the  ball,  br  j  I  shall  die  if  1 
mias  the  bridge." 


THE  HIDDEN  CRUCIFIX 


»7S 


*  Indeed,"  replied  her  companion,  glancing  at  the 
cross. 

"  Yes,  it  will  be  too  cruel.  I  have  picked  up  some 
awfully  good  points  on  bridge — got  thera  in  New 
York.  I  got  them  from  my  friend's  clergyman,  the 
Rev.  Dyson  Bartlett,  rector  of  the  Holy  Archangels. 
He  is  a  lovely  man.  You'd  never  think,  to  hear  him 
preach,  that  there  was  so  much  in  him.  Do  you 
know  of  him  ? " 

"  No,"  answered  Mr.  Blake,  "  I  don't  think  I  ever 
heard  of  him  before." 

"  Probably  not.  He  lives  a  very  quiet  life — very 
restful  sort  of  nature  he  has ;  he  never  gets  up  till 
eleven ;  but  of  course  he  is  always  up  very  late  at 
night.  Can't  bum  the  candle  at  both  ends,  can  you  ? 
Clergymen  are  only  human,  and  must  get  their  rest. 
But  on  Sunday  mornings  he  gets  up  at  half-past  six 
for  early  mass,  and  of  course  he  plays  on  Saturday 
nights  too,  so  sometimes  he  must  get  very  little 
sleep.  Clergymen  don't  have  such  an  easy  life  after 
all.     Are  you  an  Episcopalian,  Mr.  Blake  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't  belong  to  that  church." 

"Isn't  that  too  bad?  But  I  don't  know  why  I 
should  say  thiit.  I  Ibink  lots  of  people  go  to  heaven 
who  beloL'g  to  oth'sr  cij  arches.  But  then,  of  course,  I 
am  very  brot»d  in  .-^v  views.  I  can't  bear  narrow 
people — I  just  can't  stand  iiiTow  people ;  and  besides, 
I  met  a  lovely  n  an  once  '<n  Tarrytown,  and  he  was  a 
Presbyterian.     I  hope  I  wJl  nieet  bim  in  heaven." 


m 


■'-Mf.-it.^ 


•    *- 


■76       Sr.  CUIUBERT'S  OF  TUE    WEST 


"  1  hope  you  will,"  b  id  Mr.  Blake. 

"  Yes,"  »he  reaumed,  "  tliat  is  what  1  liked  ibout 
Mr.  Bui  tlett — he  was  so  broad  in  hi«  views.  1  re- 
member I  aakod  him  oiico  if  he  thought  Dissenters 
would  go  to  heaven,  aud  1  shall  never  forget  how 
beautifully  he  spoke.  We  were  having  a  little  game 
at  the  time — only  a  dollar  stake — and  it  was  his 
turn  to  play.  But  when  1  aeked  him  that  about  the 
Disaeuters,  he  laid  down  his  cards  on  the  table,  and 
his  hands  unconBciously  look  hold  of  the  cross  he 
always  carried  ou  hia  coat,  and  he  said,  '  God  is  very 
merciful,  Mrs.  Drake,' — then  he  dropped  the  cross 
and  took  up  the  cards  again,  and  gave  a  little  sigh 
before  he  played,  and  there  was  a  beautiful  smile  on 
his  face — a  kind  of  sad,  sweet  smile." 

"  Did  you  attend  his  church  when  in  New 
York  ? "  said  her  listener,  not  kuowiii^;  what  else  to 

say. 

"  Yes,  sometimes ;  but  you  wouldn't  think  he  had 
such  deep  thoughts  just  from  hearing  him  preach. 
He  was  very  deep.  One  night  we  were  all  discussing 
wliether  it  was  a  sin  to  play  for  stakes.  It  was  after 
the  game  was  ever,  and  Mr.  Bartlett  had  won  the 
whole  thing.  He  put  the  money  away  quietly  in  hia 
pocket — he  gives  it  to  the  poor  people  in  the  Holy 
Archangels,  he  said,  for  some  of  the  iloly  Archangels 
are  quite  poor — he  put  it  quietly  in  hia  pocket,  and 
he  took  hold  of  his  cross,  and  he  was  silent  for  a 
littlfc  while.     Then  he  said, '  Stakes  are  everywhere  in 


^^ 


:\£^^>a^'JP^ 


THE  HIDDEN  CJiUCJFIX 


*11 


life_fftith  itself  stakes  the  soul.'  and  that  sad.  sweet 
»mUe  came  back  again.     Wasn't  that  deep  ? " 

"  Yes,  very  deep."  answered  Mr.  Blake,  thinking  of 

the  pocket. 

"Another  time,  I  remember,  he  said  it  had  often 
occurred  to  him  that  it  was  the  great  Creator  who 
hud  caused  bridge  to  be  discovered;  he  said  God  gave 
us  bridge  so  that  good  Christians^  could  give  up 
playing  poker.     Wasn't  that  deep?" 

Mr.  Blake  ventured  some  reply  such  as  courtesy 
and  conscience  could  agree  upon.  "  1  really  never 
gave  the  matter  much  thought,"  he  concluded. 

"  Oh  dear  1     There  we  are  at  half-speed  agam  !     1 
know  I'll  be  too  late.— Yes,  even  some  of  his  sermons 
were  very  deep.     He  had  a  beautiful  poetic  mind ; 
and  he  gave  everything  such  a  lovely  turn.     1  shaU 
never  forget  his  last  sermon.     It  was  beautiful     He 
was  preaching  on  the  text :  •  Wash  me  whiter  than 
snow  '—the  church  was  so  hot,  but  you  could  just  see 
the  snow.     And  his  divisions  were  beautiful     I  can 
tell  them  yet.     His  first  point  was  that  we  should  aU 
be  pure  and  white  like  the  snow.     Then  the  second 
one,  he  said,  grew  out  of  the  first,  that  if  we  were 
pure  and  clean  Uke  the  srow,  we  would  not  be  impure 
or  unclean.     And  the  last  point  was  a  very  solemn 
one.     He  said  that  if  we  were  not  pure  and  white  hke 
the  snow,  by  and  by  we  would  go  down  where  there 
was  no  more  snow.     That  was  a  beautiful  thought, 
wasn't  it  ?     I  thought  ii  ^^a8  such  a  lovely  ending." 


^J. 


MICROCOPY    RESOIUTION    TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1.0    !r»-  e 

==    i"r  13.2  ,„„„„ 


i;^ 


1^ 


2.2 
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1.8 


1.4 


1.6 


A  -APPLIED  IIVMGE     Inc 

^S-^  1653    ta5t    Mair.    St>ee', 

=^S  Rochester.    New   York         U609       uSA 

•-^  (716)    482  -  0300  -  Phone 

^=  (716)   288  -  5989  -  Fax 


ayS        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 


1  f 


"  I  never  heard  a  sermon  just  like  that,"  remarked 
Mr.  Blake,  his  mind  reverting  to  St.  Cuthbert's. 

"  Neither  did  I,"  went  on  the  worshipper,  "  and  I 
told  him  so  the  next  night  when  we  met  at  Mrs. 
Bronson's  for  a  little  farewell  game.  He  took  hold 
of  his  cross  again  nnd  he  said,  *We  must  deal 
faithfully,  Mrs.  Drake,' — and  he  was  just  starting  to 
deal  as  he  spoke.  But  he  never  smiled,  except  that 
sad,  sweet  smile  that  he  always  wore — except  when 
he  lost.  And  he  told  us  that  after  that  service  he 
found  the  curate  weeping  in  the  vestry.  But  the 
curate  fairly  worships  Mr.  Bartlett.  It  was  Mr. 
Bartletc  who  first  taught  him  bridge,  I  think.  Do 
you  play  bridge,  Mr.  Blake  ? " 

"  No,  I  never  learned  the  game." 

"Oh,  I  forgot;  you're  a  Presbyterian,  you  said. 
It's  pretty  much  a  church  game,  I  fancy.  Excuse 
my  rudeness,  but  why  don't  you  wear  a  cross,  Mr. 
Blake  ? " 

"  What  ? "  said  Mr.  Blake  abruptly  ;  "  why  don't  I 
what  ? " 

"Isn't  that  dreadful?  The  engines  are  scarcely 
moving.  I  know  we  won't  get  in  till  five,  and  the 
bridge  begins  at  three.  There  is  nothing  but  dis- 
appointments in  this  world. — Oh  yes,  why  don't  you 
wear  a  cross  ?  Not  so  much  for  the  ornament,  of 
course.  I  got  this  one  at  Tiffany's,  and  it  cost  me  ten 
pounds.  But,  as  Mr.  Bartlett  said,  the  crcs  stands 
for  sacrifice,  so  I  don't  begrudge  it.     I  think  in  this 


THE  HIDDEN  CRUCIFIX 


279 


^orld  of  Bin  and  sorrow  everyone  should  wear  a  cross. 
We're  going  a  little  faster  now,  don't  you  tliink  ? " 

"  Yes,  madam,  I  think  we  are — and  I  do  wear  a 
cross — if  you  have  not  forgotten  your  question." 

"  Oh,  you  do  1  I  am  so  glad.  Where  ?  I  suppose 
you've  changed  your  clothes.     But  I  never  noticed  it 

before." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  have  eeen  it." 

•♦  Oh,  I  see ;  lots  of  men  carry  them  under  their 
vests.  But  I  think  we  should  let  the  wtild  see  it. 
Do  you  carry  yours  next  your  heart  ? " 

"  No,  madam,  deeper  still,"  said  Mr.  Blake. 


i 


XXVIII 


THE    HEATHERY    HILLS 


rpiIE  anchor  had  been  cast,  and  the  good  Bhip, 
-*-  panting,  lay  at  rest.  The  bugle  note  had 
followed  the  departing  tender  with  wistful  strains  of 
"  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  and  the  emancipated  passengers 
were  pouring  out  upon  old  England's  hospitable  soil. 
The  happy  crowd,  catching  already  the  contagion  of 
English  jollity,  swayed  about  the  landing-stage,  then 
flowed  in  separate  streams  into  the  Customs  pen ;  for 
this  is  the  first  tug  of  the  tether,  just  when  all  who 
have  escaped  the  sea  think  they  are  safe  at  last.  Out 
through  the  fingers  of  the  stem  inspectors  floT^ed  the 
crowd  in  sti. .  thinner  streams,  till  all  this  community 
of  the  deep  is  scattered  to  the  winds. 

Swift-hurrying,  they  go  their  separate  ways,  and 
the  happy  little  bubble  has  burst  and  vanished,  as  its 
successors,  no  ,  .jrming  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 
will  burst  and  vanish  too.  What  friendships,  what 
ardent  loves,  what  molten  vows,  ocean  bom,  have 
begun  to  languish  on  the  wharf  at  Liverpool,  like  sun- 
fish  separated  from  their  native  wave  f 


280 


THE  Hi  ^  :.1ERY  HILLS 


281 


Michael  Blake  hailed  a  hansom  and  drove  to  the 
North-Western.  Aa  he  passed  th-ough  the  turbid 
streets,  dense  loneliness  settled  about  him  like  a  fog. 
This  was  old  England,  this  the  land  wliich  e"»  ■  s 
across  the  sea  in  thoir  fondness  call  the  "old 
country." 

But  he  could  not  free  himself  from  the  thought 
that  when  he  left  it  youth's  sun  was  burning  bright : 
and  now  more  than  the  early  afternoon  was  gone. 

"  The  evening  too  will  pass,  as  the  afternoon  has 
passed,"  he  said  to  himself,  "only  more  quickly." 
And  he  glanced  at  the  descending  sun,  God's  meta- 
phor of  warning,  the  recurring  epitome  of  life.  His 
lips  moved  to  speak  a  text,  the  native  instinct  strong 
therefor.  They  had  meant  to  say,  "The  night 
cometh";  but  someone  interfered,  and  ho  said  to 
hunself,  "The  night  is  far  spent— the  day  is  at 
hand,"  for,  after  all,  the  setting  sun  has  morning  in 

its  heart 

He  dismissed  the  cab,  and  entering  the  hotel,  made 
some  inquiry  about  the  trains  for  the  North,  He 
could  not  start  North  before  midnight.  The  evening 
was  tine,  and  he  walked  out.  St.  George's  Hall 
arrested  him  with  its  elaborate  grandeur.  What 
beauty,  what  chastity,  what  becoming  signs  of  civic 
wealth !  When  he  came  to  its  massive  steps  he  cast 
his  eyes  upon  them,  and  behold,  they  were  dripping 
with  poverty'  The  victims  of  want  in  mid-career 
were  there,  and  drooping  age,  unequally  yoked  with 


&£!»•- 


a8a        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

poverty,  and  frowsy  women  with  ribald  face;  and 
chief  among  them  all,  little  ch*xdren,  some  blear-eyed, 
some  pallid  with  want,  some  with  the  legacy  of  sores 
— for  they  had  been  shapen  in  iniquity. 

But  all  alike — and  herein  was  the  anguish  of  it — 
all  alike  were  bent  on  play,  and  persisted  pitifully  in 
the  cruel  farce.  The  little  bare  feet  pattered  up  and 
down  the  steps — but  the  steps  were  stone. 

Michael  Blake  thought  of  his  adopted  home  across 
the  sea  and  its  green  fields  and  tree-graced  meadows. 
Then  he  thought  of  the  far  Western  plains,  vast 
beyond  human  fancy,  waiting  and  calling  for  the 
tired  feet  of  all  who  spend  weary  lives  in  the  old  land, 
playing  on  stone  steps  while  wealth  and  grandeur 
smile  above  them.  In  a  few  minutes  he  turned 
away,  for  the  folk  of  his  country  are  not  accustomed 
to  the  sight  of  hungry  children ;  and  a  woman  under 
drink  is  something  that  many  of  their  eldest  have 
never  seen  at  all. 

The  sound  of  martial  music  and  the  voice  of  cheer- 
ing thousands  fell  upon  his  ear.  He  moved  towards 
it.  Soon  the  surging  procession  broke  upon  him. 
"Who  are  these?"  he  asked,  "these  fellows  in 
khaki  ? "  They  had  their  rifles  in  their  hands,  and 
some  were  slightly  lame,  and  some  had  the  signs  of 
wounds — and  all  had  the  rich  stain  of  battle  on  them. 
"  Art  thou  only  a  stranger  ? "  he  is  asked  in  turn, 
*'  and  knowest  not  the  things  that  are  come  to  pass  ? 
These  are  they  who   have  come  out  of  Paardeburg 


THE  HEATHERY  HILLS 


283 


homeward  bound  by  way  of  the  ancestral  home,  aud 
the  tide  of  British  love  and  gratitude  wafts  them  ou 
their  course." 

He  is  soon  caught  in  tue  swelling  throng,  his  own 
head  bare,  his  own  voice  blending  in  the  imperial 
hosannah.  He  catches  a  familiar  face  amoug  the 
soldiers ;  he  hears  the  strain  of  the  "  Maple  Leaf " 
mingling  with  the  mighty  bass  of  the  Mother  Anthem. 
He  beholds  the  Union  Jack  enriched  with  the 
Canadian  emblem.  Gazing  on  the  battered  few,  he 
sees  the  survivors  of  the  battle,  and  he  knows  that 
the  unreturning  feet  rest  in  the  soil  they  have  won  to 
freedom  ;  Canadian  lads  were  these  who  have  insisted 
with  dying  lips  that  Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 
His  adopted  land  has  given  of  its  choicest  blood  to 
swell  the  sacred  tide  that  for  centuries  hath  laved  the 
shores  of  liberty. 

All  this  surges  in  upon  him,  and  the  savage  joy  of 
empire  fills  his  heart.  His  loneliness  has  fled,  and  he 
feels  that  beyond  the  ocean  he  is  at  home,  the  old 
home,  with  its  ever-open  gate  for  its  far-flung  childrtn. 
The  mighty  roar  becomes  the  gentle  whisper  of 
Britain's  lips,  bidding  him  draw  closer  to  the  imperial 
fireside  and  warm  himself  at  its  imperishable  flame. 

He  follows  them  for  a  time,  then  turns  and  slowly 
wends  his  way  back  to  the  hotel.  As  he  walks  on, 
the  shouting  aud  the  tumult  die,  the  banners  gleam 
no  more,  and  he  is  left  alone  with  the  empire  of  his 
heart,  and  with  other  worlds  to  conquer.     We  need 


«84       ST.  CUTHSERT'S  OF  THE  WEST 

no  awift-flying  transport  to  bear  ua  to  I'fe'a  greatest 
battlefielda 

A  little  waif,  a  boy  of  ten,  pinched  and  ragged,  was 
gazing  in  a  window  as  Mr.  Blake  passed  along.  A 
question  from  the  man,  a  quick  and  pathetic  answer 
from  the  boy — and  they  went  in  tc^ether.  Then  the 
man  came  out  alone,  and  the  fervent  joy  of  an  hour 
ago  was  gone,  but  a  deeper  gladness  had  taken  the 
room  it  left  behind.  It  is  still  there — a  life-tenant — 
for  its  lease  cannot  be  broken  till  memory  dies. 

When  he  re^^ntered  the  hotel,  the  clerk  recognised 
him  and  said — 

"  Your  train  goes  in  an  hour,  sir.  You  are  going 
up  to  Scotland,  I  think  you  said." 

Scotland  I  The  word  inflamed  him ;  and  he  hurried 
to  his  room  to  prepare  for  departure. 

The  guar  I's  sharp  whistle  sounded,  and  the  train, 
with  British  pronaptness,  flew  out  of  the  Lime  Street 
Station,  r  at  least  strangely  thrilled,  one  face 

steadfast.     >         yards  Scotland's  waiting  hills. 

He  wa.  .ne  in  the  compartment,  and  the  long 
night  seemed  only  liki  a  watch  thereof.  He  was 
alone,  yet  not  alone — for  Memory  sat  beside  him,  and 
Conscience,  and  Hope.  No,  he  was  not  alone ;  for 
there  wrestled  a  Man  with  him  till  the  breaking  of 
the  day.  And  still  the  train  flew  on,  as  though  it 
knew ;  on  it  flew,  as  though  the  unseen  Wrestler  him- 
self had  his  hand  upon  the  engine's  throat. 

The  Bim  was  rising  when  he  left  the  train.     The 


THE  HEATHER  Y  HILLS 


«85 


train  flevr  on,  uncaring ;  for  trains  know  not  that  th^y 
are  carriers  unto  destiny. 

Michael  Blake  looked   long  at  the  n^ini^  sun it 

was  the  sama  Then  his  eyes  caressed  the  surround- 
ing hills,  playfellows  of  bygone  years — they  had  not 
changed.  The  flowers  still  were  there,  the  grass  had 
never  withered ;  the  heather,  too,  in  unfading  purity. 

And  the  irees,  the  old  mighty  elms,  these  were 
still  the  same — the  foliage  of  a  larger  life  they  had, 
but  the  selfsame  branches  held  out  their  kindly  hands 
aa  in  the  long  ago.  Still  upturned  were  their 
reverent  heads,  still  seeking  God — and  the  baptism 
of  the  morning  was  upon  them,  attested  by  the  morn- 
ing light 

He  turned  towards  one  of  the  familiar  hills  and 
began  the  old  boyhood  climb. 

Midway,  he  came  to  a  spring,  and  a  great  thirst 
clutched  his  heart.  It  was  life's  long,  quenchless 
thirst,  crying  out  again  for  the  children's  portion. 
His  face  is  close  to  its  crystal  water,  his  lips  burning 
with  desire.  Another's  face  moves  upward  to  greet 
his  own — but  it  is  not  the  same — and  memory  swiftly 
paints  another  till  he  actually  sees  it,  the  ardent  face 
of  youth.  And  beside  it  is  a  maiden's  face — for  they 
had  often  stooped  together — a  maiden's  face,  laughing 
for  very  love.  But  they  vanish,  and  he  sees  aga:  ,  his 
own,  worn  and  wrinkle-signed — and  alone. 

Yet  the  spring  still  is  there,  unwrinkled  and  un- 
worn, and  his  fevered  lips  driak  deeply.     How  sweet, 


a86        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

how  delicious,  and  how  woLdrous  cool !  It  is  still  the 
same  as  when  roay  lips  of  leva  sipped  from  its  surface 
long  ago.  Ho  rises  and  turns  from  the  hallowed 
spot ;  but  the  floodgates  of  me  lory  ere  unloosed,  and 
his  heart  melts  within  Mm.  The  tears  are  flowing 
fast,  and  the  old  luxury,  because  the  old  innocence,  of 
childhood  seems  to  bathe  his  broken  heart. 

"0  God,"  he  cries  aloud,  "hast  Thou  no  fountain 
for  the  soul,  no  living  springs  farther  up  the  hill  ? " 
and  as  he  cried,  he  glanced  again  into  the  limpid 
spring.  And  lo !  that  gentle  face  was  there  again, 
love's  laughter  still  upon  its  lips,  and  a  great  hope 
looking  out  from  grave  and  tender  eyes. 

Then  farther  up  the  hill  he  climbed,  the  quick  step 
of  boyhood  coming  bacL — and  soon  he  stood  upon  its 
brow.  He  threw  himself  upon  the  grass  and  cast  his 
eyes  over  all  the  unforgotten  valley.  It  was  slumber- 
ing still,  for  the  sun  is  over  early  in  Scuttish  latitudes, 
and  he  quickly  searched  the  hillside  that  confronted 
him.  Behind  a  sheltering  bush  ho  lay,  peering  far 
beyond. 

All  the  valley  is  forgotten  now — for,  across  the 
ravine  beneath  him,  he  seea  a  cottage.  Tho  same, 
the  very  same  it  is,  save  that  the  thatch  has  been 
renewed  I  A  humble  shepherd's  cottage,  only  a  but 
and  a  ben,  built  long  ago  by  thrifty  hands — but  he 
first  learned  to  worship  there. 

Yet  is  it  still  the  same  ?  He  knows  not — but  he 
knows   the   risk    of    passing  years.     Unchanged    tha 


THE  HEATHERY  HILLS 


a87 


cottage  itands,  and  the  same  gate  hangs  half  open 
AB  in  the  far-back  yesterday.  Yet  it  is  the  spirit 
alouo  that  giveth  life,  and  of  this  he  may  not  know. 
He  looks  at  his  watch — it  is  near  six  o'clock,  and  he 
had  seen  a  man  walk  sleepily  to  the  byre  from  a 
distant  house.  He  waits  and  watches,  while  a 
strange  fever  burns  his  heart,  unknown  to  "outhful 
passion.  His  lips  are  parched,  though  the  water  from 
the  spring  is  scarce  dry  upon  them  yet. 

Still  gazing,  he  sees  no  sign  of  life  about  the  house. 
He  thinks,  yet  knows  not  why,  of  Mary  and  the 
empty  touib.  Hope  is  sinking  fast,  when  of  a 
sudden  a  timid  wreath  of  smoke  flows  slowly  from 
the  chimney,  and  Michael  Blake's  hand  reaches 
swiftly  towards  his  heart.  "  Be  still,  be  still,"  he 
murmurs ;  "  who  ki  ows  that  it  is  for  thee  ? "  But  his 
eyes  follow  ib  greedily,  for  it  is  to  him  a  soul-sigual 
from  afar,  God's  altar  sra^ke,  aud  he  knows  now  that 
the  house  is  not  a  .sepulcJire. 

"Now  1  shall  go  aud  K  >ck."  *  «aid  to  himself; 
but  a  new  thought  p08Sc^  ■  il  a,  an'I  he  bowed 
again  behind  the  eleuder  furz*.',  fa  ^s  eyes  stiU  fixed 
upon  the  house. 

They  were  but  minutes  that 
came  disguised  as  hours — for  K> 
rehearse  eternity.     He  must  have 
his  eyes  have  forsaken  all  else,  and  « 
cottage  door.     Yes,  it  moved,  it  sur^ 
the   strong   man's   eyes   are  numb,      j 


v«  ted,  but  they 

u!  compel  us  do 

it  it  coming,  for 

lixe^l  upon  the 

moved;  and 


atiu 


a 88       ST.  CUTH BERT'S  OF  THE  WEST 

renew  the  vigil.  Yes,  it  moves,  wider  still— and  the 
flutter  of  a  diGss  is  seen.  His  heart  leaps  wildly,  aud 
bis  eyes  fly  at  tlie  face  that  follow  It  is  too  f^r  to 
seo  clearly — but  he  soon  must  know ! 

A  comely  form  emerges  from  the  door,  a  d  the 
fixe  looks  up  at  the  morning  sun.  The  woman  walks 
out  and  on,  hthe  grace  in  every  movement.  Then 
the  valley  swims  before  him — for  it  la,  it  is  the 
woman  he  had  loved.  He  knows  the  dainty  step, 
the  erect  carriage,  the  shapel/  frame.  Nearer  still 
she  comes,  skirting  the  base  of  the  hill  he  had 
climbed,  sliil  often  looking  towards  the  sun,  pausing 
now  and  then  to  pluck  a  flower  by  the  way.  Where 
can  she  be  going  ? 

No  bonnet  binds  her  waving  hair,  and  now  he  can 
catch  the  light  of  the  morning  sun  upon  it.  Streaks 
of  grey,  here  and  there,  can  be  seen,  but  they  i»re 
few ;  the  breeze  rallies  the  loose-flowing  strands,  and 
they  make  merry  and  are  glad  together.  He  can 
see  the  pure  bosom,  lightly  robed,  that  swclla  with 
buoyant  life.  She  is  nearer  to  him  now,  and  the 
face  swims  in  upon  him  across  the  chasm  of  long 
silent  years,  the  same  pure  face,  still  bright  with 
tender  love.  She  is  now  beside  the  spring — for 
ihither  was  she  bent — and  the  overflowing  pail  is 
laid  down  beside  her. 

She  too  glances  into  the  bosom  of  the  water, 
and  he  wonders  if  memory  guides  the  wistful  gaze. 
Dofs  she  too  nee  another  face  preserved  against  the 


THE  HEAThERY  HILLS 


,.S9 


yci-.ri  in  the  pure  keeping  of  tlio  spring  ?  He  knows 
not — but  he  thinks,  j"  he  ie  6 ore  he  eaw  the  move- 
ment of  the  lips,  and  ner  ■ » .o  ir.  again  upturned 

but  its  thought  is  far  beyond  flio  sun.  He  uucovers 
his  i*ead  and  joins  the  holy  quest. 

She  has  returned  to  the  cottage  and  the  door  is 
closed;  '  t  Michael  Blake  hnn  novor  moved.  Now 
he  St.  '  >ut  from  behind  his  shelter  and  starts 
towardo  the  house.  ITien  he  stops,  turns  back  and 
begins  to  descend  the  hill  by  the  same  course  as 
had  led  him  up.  Yet  once  more  he  turns  and  gazes 
long  at  the  dwelling-place,  star  i  towards  it,  otops 
again. 

"  Not  now,"  he  said  to  himself ;  "  I  cannot it  is 

too  light." 

And  he  walked  back  to  the  hamlet ;  he  was  wait- 
ing for  the  tender  dark. 


lO 


XXIX 


"AND   ALL   BUT   HE   DEPABTKD** 

npHE  little  inn  eeemed  to  have  no  guests  except 
-L  the  traveller  from  beyond  the  sea.  But  no 
such  tavern  is  ever  long  deserted,  for  the  Scotch 
nature,  while  it  may  be  dry,  is  ever  loyal.  Michael 
Blake  had  read  but  a  line  or  two  of  the  Edinfyurgh 
Scotsman,  ten  days  of  age,  when  a  man  walked 
solemnly  in  and  sat  down  beside  him.  His  face,  his 
breath,  and  especially  his  nose,  bore  eloquent  testi- 
mony to  the  aforesaid  loyalty  of  his  nature.  He 
bade  Mr.  Blake  a  cheerful  good-morning,  glancing  at 
the  same  time  towards  the  counter  beneath  which 
the  liquid  necessities  were  stored. 

"  It's  a  fine  mornin',"  he  began. 

"  A  beautiful  day,"  assented  Mr.  Blake. 

"  Ye'll  no'  live  aboot  these  pairts  ? "  inquired  the 
other. 

"  No,  I  live  far  from  here." 

"Ye'll  mebbe    be   frae   Ameriky?"   ventured    his 
interrogator,  closing  in  upon  him. 

•  Yes,  I  live  in  Canada,"  was  the  response. 

290 


"AND  ALL  BUT  HE  DEPARTED*'      a^i 

"Canady,"  said  the  man.  "We're  gey  prood  o' 
Canady  the  noo.  I  ken't  a  man  once  wha  went  to 
Canady.  I  had  a  drink  wi'  him  afore  he  went,"  he 
continued,  hia  eye  lighting  with  the  dewy  memory ; 
"  ye'U  likely  ken  him.  Oliver  wae  hia  name,  WattiJ 
Oliver,  a  bow-leggit  wee  body." 

"  I  cannot  say  I  ever  met  with  him,"  replied  Mi. 
Blake.  "Canada  is  larger  than  you  think  over 
here." 

"Mebbe  so,"  said  the  friendly  stranger;  "mair  nor 
likely  he's  deid  noo ;  one  o'  thae  red  Indians  micht 
hae  killed  him,  like  eneuch." 

"Yes,  or  perhaps  a  bear,"  Mr.  Blake  replied 
gravely. 

There  was  a  pause.     A  bell  was  ringing,  its  notes 

floating  in  clear  and  sweet  upon  them. 

"  What  bell  is  that  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Blaka 

"  That's  oor  bell  i'  the  parish  kirk ;  there's  no  ither 

ane." 

"  What  is  it  ringing  for  ?  To-day  is  Thursday," 
asked  Mr.  Blake. 

"  Ay,"  responded  the  other,  "  this  is  the  fast  day. 
Sabbath's  the  sacrament,  ye  ken,  and  they're  maist 
awfu'  strict  aboot  the  fast  day.  They  wadua  work 
that  day,nae  mair  than  on  the  Sabbath.  They  willna 
even  whustie.  Ae  mornin'  I  met  Davie  Drewry,  an' 
'twas  the  fast  day.  Koo,  of  couise,  it  was  juist  au 
or'nary  day  in  Dr.  Cameroii's  parish  across  the  burn 
—the  burn  divides  the  twa,  ye  ken,     Weei,  Davio 


29J        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 


was  a  lad  for  whuatlin' — he  cudua  leeve  withoot 
whustlin' — but  he  was  gey  religious  too.  Weel,  I 
met  Davie  that  mornin',  walkin'  awfu'  fast,  maist 
rinnin' — an'  his  face  was  red. 

"•Whaur  mioht  ye  be  gaun,  Davie?'  says  I, 
'  nacbody  ailin'  ?  * 

" '  Na,  na,'  says  Davie,  *  but  it's  the  fast  day,  an'  I 
canna  stand  it  ony  longer.  I'm  gaun  ower  the  bum 
to  hae  a  whustle.'     Wasna  that  fair  redeek'lus ! " 

"  Quite  ingenious,"  answered  Mr.  Blake.  **  You  go 
to  that  church,  I  suppose  ? " 

"Na,  I  dinna.  I  quit  it  when  they  brocht  the 
kist  o'  whustles  intill't  I  wadna  stand  it.  There's 
nae  real  Presbyterians  there  forbye  me  an'  Jock 
Campbell — ^an'  I'm  sair  feart  aboot  Jock.  I  doot  he's 
weakenin*.  They  tell  me  he  speaks  to  the  minister 
on  the  street,  an'  if  that's  true,  there's  no'  muckle  o' 
the  auld  religion  aboot  Jock,  I'm  feariu'." 

"  Do  you  not  speak  to  the  minister  ? " 

*  Na,  I  dinna.  There's  naething  o'  the  hypocrite 
aboot  me,  I'm  tellin'  ye.  I  settled  the  minister  fine 
the  last  word  I  spoke  to  him.  He  came  to  see  me ; 
an'  he  thocht  he  oould  wheedle  me  aboot  the  organ 
i'  the  boose  o'  Gk>d. 

" '  Div  ye  no'  ken,*  he  says  to  me,  *  aboot  Dauvit, 
the  sweet  singer  o'  Israel — how  he  played  a'  kinds  o' 
instruments  i'  the  Lord's  hoose  ? '  He  thocht  he  had 
me.  But  I  gied  him  as  guid  as  he  brocht.  What 
think  yo  I  answered  him  ? ' 


''AND  ALL  BUT  HE  DEPARTED'' 


293 


"•I  really  have  no  idea,"  said  Mr.  Blake.  "What 
was  it  ?  " 

"  '  Div  ye  think,'  says  I,  lookin'  fair  at  him,  '  div  ye 
think  I  tak'  Dauvit  for  a  paittem  ? ' — and  it  did  for 
him.  '  I'll  hae  to  be  gaein',  says  he,  '  I  hae  a 
funeral.'  'Ay,'  says  I,  'ye'd  better  hae  a  funeral' 
— an'  we  haena  spoken  to  ane  anither  Bince." 

"That's a  pity,"  said  Mr.  Blake;  "it  seems  too  bad 
that  the  soul's  interests  should  suffer  because  of  a 
matter  of  that  kind.  Of  course,"  he  continued,  "I 
don't  say  that  a  man  may  not  be  religious  because  he 
doesn't  go  to  church.  Men  may  scorn  the  bridge  and 
still  get  across  the  river,  but  they  would  have  got 
along  better  by  the  bridge." 

"  I  dinna  ken  aboot  the  brig,"  said  the  other,  "  that 
isna  to  the  point," — for  he  was  not  of  a  metaphorical 
turn  of  mind, —  "but  I've  nae  doot  aboot  bein' 
religious.  A  man  in  my  walk  0'  life,  in  my  business, 
ye  ken,  canna  weel  help  bein'  religious.  He's  the 
same  as  the  Apostle  Paul." 

"What?"  said  M-.  Blake,  "are  you  a  tent- 
maker  ? " 

"  Na,  na,  certainly  not ;  there's  nane  o'  them  now- 
adays. A  man  in  my  callin'  doesna  do  the  same  as 
Paul,  but  he  can  my  the  same,  ye  see.  I  can  say  wi' 
Paul :  '  Death  to  me  is  great  gain ' — I'm  an  under- 
taker, ye  ken." 

"An  undertaker!"  exclaimed  his  listener,  uncon- 
sciously   pushing    back    hii    chair,    shocked    at    the 


394        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 


gruesome  humour.  Besides,  the  man  was  looking  at 
him  with  something  like  a  professional  eye,  as  if 
making  an  estimate  of  time  and  spaca 

"Ay,"  responded  he  of  the  apostolic  claim,  "I'm 
an  undertaker — but  times  is  dull.  I  was  an  under- 
taker ten  year  in  Lockerby,  but  I  leit  there  lang  syne. 
I  had  ae  fine  customer,  the  bailie ;  he  had  eleven  o' 
a  family.  But  I  lost  his  trade.  The  bailie  was  sick 
— an'  my  laddie,  wee  Sandy,  was  aye  plaguin'  me  for 
a  sled.  I  tell't  him  I'd  get  him  ane  when  I  had  mair 
siller.  Weel,  wee  Sandy  was  aye  rinnin'  ower  to  the 
boose  an'  askiu'  ;  aboot  the  bailie.  'Twas  nat'ral 
eneuch ;  the  laddie  meant  nae  harm,  but  he  wanted 
his  sled  afore  the  snaw  was  gone.  Onyway,  they 
tuk  offence." 

"  Did  he  get  bis  sled  ? "  asked  Mr.  Blake  mechani- 
cally, staring  at  the  man. 

"  Na,  poor  wee  Sandy  never  got  his  sled.  I  had 
juist  ae  ither  customer  ye  micht  ca'  guid.  He  was 
deein'  o'  consumption,  an'  I  took  guid  care  o'  Sandy's 
sympathy.  There  was  no  askin'  aboot  him,  mind  ye. 
But  there  was  a  mean  man  i'  the  business,  wha  was 
never  meant  to  be  an  undertaker.  His  name  was 
Creighton,  Tom  Creighton,  an'  what  dae  ye  think 
Tom  did  to  get  his  trade  ? " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  rising  to 
depart. 

"  Weel,  I'll  tell  ye.  Twa  days  afore  he  died,  Tom 
Creighton  tuk  him  oot    for   a    drive — he  was  awfu' 


aaiff       '  ■ 


l^^^s...^^.''^ ... 


"AJVn  ALL  BUT  HE  DEPARTED''      295 

fair  to  his  face  an'  he  got  around  him;  tell't  him 
at  the  gate  that  he  hoped  to  gie  him  anither  drive 
later  on.  Of  course,  he  got  his  trade  — he  had  to  gie 
him  his  trade  after  that.  But  I  wadua  stoop  to  sic- 
like  tricks  for  nae  man's  trade.  So  I  left  Lockerby 
an'  came  here — I'm  the  only  yin  here." 

Mr.  Blake  was  glad  to  escape  his  garrulous  ac- 
quaintance, and  had  heard  enough  of  his  sombre 
annals.  He  walked  out,  and  wandered  far — o'er 
moor  and  fen,  o'er  hill  and  valley,  by  many  an 
unforgotten  path  he  wandered — past  his  boyhood's 
school,  where  he  heard  again  the  laughing  sliout  that 
seemed  scarcely  to  have  died  away  from  lips  now 
long  silent. 

He  loitered  again  by  the  babbling  stream  which 
had  been  the  fishing-ground  of  boyhood,  and  lay  once 
more  on  mossy  beds,  and  bathed  his  face  in  the  same 
friendly  tide.  He  gazed  far  up  into  the  leafy  trees 
and  saw  the  very  nooks  where  boyhood's  form  had 
rested;  again  he  saw  the  sun  gleam  on  the  happy 
heads  of  those  who  gambolled  far  beneath. 

He  drank  his  fill  of  the  long  yesterday,  thirsty 
still.  No  familiar  face,  no  voice  of  long  ago,  had  he 
seen  or  heard ;  and  he  tasted  that  unreasoning  pain 
which  comes  ^  he  man  who  knows,  and  is  wounded 
by  the  truth,  lat  his  native  heath  is  reconciled  to 
his  exile,  careless  of  his  loneliness,  indifferent  to  bid 
it  cease. 

When  hu  returned  to  the  hospitable  inn,  he  was 


V^.; 


I 


296        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 

as  one  seeking  rest,  and  finding  none.  He  sat 
reflective,  while  memory  bathed  the  soul  of  love  with 
tears.  Presently  the  sound  of  voices  floated  out 
from  an  adjoining  room.  He  listened  eagerly,  for 
one  was  evidently  the  voice  of  a  returned  wanderer 
like  himself.  The  other  was  that  of  a  man  who  had 
never  wandered  from  his  native  spot.  The  home- 
keepei  J  tongue  had  still  its  mother-Scotch,  but  his 
companion  had  been  cured. 

"  I  know  I  shouldn't  do  it,  Gavin,"  he  heard  the 
latter  say;  "I'm  really  a  teetotaler  in  Australia. 
Used  to  take  a  drOp  or  two  before  I  emigrated ;  but 
I'm  an  elder  now,  and  I  haven't  tasted  for  years. 
However,  this  is  a  special  occasion." 

Mr.  Blake  moved  his  chair  to  where  he  could 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  men.  They  were  advanced 
in  years,  both  about  sixty-five,  and  their  heads  were 
grey.  Their  dress  betokened  plainness  of  nature, 
though  that  of  the  Australian  might  indicate  pros- 
perity. Both  would  seem  uncultured,  except  in 
heart. 

"  A  speecial  occasion  ! "  cried  the  one  addressed  as 

Gavin,  "  a  speecial  occasion !     I  should  say  it  is 

verra  speecial !  It's  twa  an'  forty  years  sin'  we  claspit 
ane  anither's  hand — man,  Andra,  friendship's  sweet, 
an'  God's  guid !  It  wad  be  fair  smf u'  no'  ta  tak'  a 
drop  at  sic  a  time  as  this.  The  minister  himsel'  wad 
taste  gin  an  auld  achulemate  came  back  after  forty 
year.     Sae    wad    the    Apostle   Paul — the   stomach's 


''AND  ..LL  BUT  HE  DEPARTED  "      897 

sake  was  naethin'  compared  wi'  this.     What'll  ye  hae, 
Andra  ? " 

"Let  this  be  mino,  Gavin,"  answered  Andrew, 
reaching  for  his  pocketbook.  When  it  appeared,  it 
was  fat  and  full,  and  Gavin  stole  a  wistful  glance  ; 
for  in  Scotland,  colonial  pocketbooks  are  proverbially 
plump.     «  What  shall  it  be  ? "  he  added 

"  Whatever  ye  say,  Andra,"  answered  Gavin.  He 
glanced  again  at  the  disappearing  purse  and  heaved 
a  little  sigh.  Patriotism  is  not  good  for  pocketbooks 
thought  Gavin. 

"  Well,"  said  his  old  schoolmate,  holding  a  sovereign 
between  his  thumb  and  finger  as  fondly  as  though 
he  had  lived  in  Scotland  all  his  life ;  "  well,"  said  he, 
'*  I  say  champagne — here,  waiter ! " 

But  Gavin  interrupted ;  "  Na,  na,  Andra,  dinna 
get  champagne.  I  took  it  ance  when  the  young 
Duke  came  o'  age,  an'  I  cudna  hae  tell't  I  had  ony- 
thijQg  half  an  hour  later.  I  dinna  care  for  ony  o' 
thae  asryated  waters.  Forbye,  it's  awfu'  dear,  an'  we 
can  hae  fur  raair  o'  the  ither,"  he  concluded,  smiling 
tender' y  at  Andrew. 

"  1  *  other "  was  produced ;  and  it  justified  the 
trust  reposed  in  it.  Well  it  knew  its  duty,  and 
well  it  played  its  part ;  for  it  burnished  memory 
bright,  stirred  emotion  from  its  hiding-place,  and 
even  led  tears  out  by  long-deserted  paths. 

The  lonely  man  in  the  outer  room  watched,  and 
envied,  and  secretly  absolved  his  brother-elder — the 


^^^^Sf^^r. 


'.■V. 


v^mtam 


:»;?«:^ 


agS        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 


latter  waa  giving  abundant  proof  of  his  freedom  from 
all  narrow  bigotry.  Like  himself,  his  old  prowess  had 
come  back.     He  was  confidential  now — 

"  She  wouldn't  have  me,  Gavin.  I  told  her  I  was 
rich,  and  that  I  loved  her  ever  since  I  left.  But  she 
wouldn't  listen  to  me.  Then  I  told  her  I  owned  ten 
thousand  sheep,  and  that  I  dreamed  about  her  every 
night.  But  it  never  moved  her.  I  told  her  I  had 
twenty  thousand  pounds  in  the  bank,  and  her  picture 
next  my  heart  besides — but  she  wouldn't.  She  said 
she  was  promised  to  another.  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
Janet  Strachan  caring  for  anyone  else  ? " 

"  Na,"  said  Gavin  absently ;  "  she'll  no'  hae  nocht 
to  dae  wi'  onybody  in  the  way  o'  love — hae  anither, 
Andra.  Dinna  droon  the  miller.  Wad  we  no'  hae 
been  fules  to  tak'  champagne  ?  It  wad  hae  been  a' 
dune  by  noo." 

Then  Gavin  stood  erect,  motioning  to  Andrew  to 
do  the  same.  Andrew  rose ;  one  on  each  side  of  the 
little  table  they  stood,  a  glass  in  the  left  hand  of 
each,  for  they  were  about  to  enact  one  of  Scotland's 
great  scenes.  Far  scattered  are  her  sons,  but  they 
havb  the  homing  heart,  and  unforgetting  cronies  wait 
to  welcome  them. 

Gavin's  hand  is  outstretched  and  Andrew's  goes 
forth  to  meet  it.  They  clasp,  the  same  hands  as 
fought  and  played  together  in  the  golden  boyhood 
da3rs. 

"  Andra,"  said  Gavin,  "  I'll  repeat  to  you  the  twa 


ajiygg*  LiisSg^.  ■' 


mmm 


"AND 

ALL 

BUT 

HE  DEPARTED 

•» 

best 

b'nes  o' 

rhyme 

i'the 

language : 

an'  div 

ye 

ken 

hoo  true  they 

are? 

'We  tw»  haa  paldl'd  i'  the  burn 
Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine' 


-an' 


— mind  ye  that,  we  twa  hae  paidl'd  i'  tho  burn- 
it's  flowin'  yet,  an'  God's  gey  guid — here's  to  yt, 
Andra,"  and  the  men  drank  together,  the  elder  and 
the  unordained,  but  the  past  was  sacred  to  them  both 
— and  childhood's  tears  came  back  to  make  that  past 
complete. 

About  an  hour  later,  Andrew  and  Gav'a  pas^-ed 
out  through  the  adjoining  room.  They  came  upon 
Mr,  Blake,  whereupon  they  immediately  sat  down, 
neither  being  in  the  mood  for  walking  far.  Both 
greeted  him  with  warmth,  and  invited  him  to  try  for 
himself  the  proceves  which  they  had  undergone  in  the 
adjoining  room.     Mr.  Blake  gratefully  declin*  J. 

"  Ye'll  have  travelled  far  ? "  said  Gavin,  avoiding 
the  direct  interrogative. 

"  A  long  way  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Blake. 

"  Come  from  America,  stranger  ? "  said  Andrew. 

"  Yes,  from  Canada." 

"  Shake,  I'm  a  fellow-colonial — I'm  from  Australia 
— delightful  this,  to  come  back  to  the  old  homestead 
and  meet  a  brother  you  never  saw  before." 

"  Maist  wondcrfu',  is't  no'  ? "  interjected  Gavin — 
then  the  responsibilities  of  a  host  began  to  weigh 
upon  him,  and  he  urged  Mr.  Blake  to  reconsider  his 


tfiM 


yiki 


flu 


■bMMI 


iHAi 


300        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 


decision  about  the  procesB;  but  Mr.  Blake  was 
firm. 

"I  ken't  fine  there  waa  somebody  frae  Ameriky 
i'  these  pairts,"  said  Gavin.  "Brownie  Telfer  tell't 
me  there  was  a  sax  pence  i'  the  plate  last  Sabbath 
day.     Itll  be  yir  ain  ? " 

"No,  I'm  afraid  I  cannot  claim  it,"  said  Mr. 
Blake.     "  I  only  landed  yesterday." 

•Yell  be  rinnin'  aboot  at  a  graun'  ratr,"  said 
Gavin,  trying  a  new  vein ,  "  came  ower  a  sicht-seein', 
did  ye  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  "  not  particularly." 

"  Took  a  little  run  over  on  business,  I  suppose  ? " 
amended  the  Australian. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Mr.  Blake. 

"  You  said  you  were  bom  in  Scotland ;  have  you 
any  old  friends  still  about  ?  Kind  of  lonely  business 
if  you  haven't,"  continued  Andrew. 

"I  really  cannot  say  I  have,"  said  Mr.  Blake, 
moving  towards  the  door.  "I'm  a  fish  out  of  its 
accustomed  waters,  even  in  its  old  hunting-ground, 
if  you  will  excuse  mixed  metaphors.  Good-evening 
to  you  both ;  I'm  glad  to  have  met  with  you." 

"  Good-evening  to  you,"  cried  the  men. 

The  Canadian  was  gone,  but  the  two  old  cronies 
eat  smoking ;  and  the  twilight,  that  great  gleaner  of 
the  past,  crept  about  them,  bringing  tender  memories 
that  mistrusted  the  garish  day.  In  the  very  midst 
of  them,  Gavin  said — 


'•*"''''""'^^- 


'*dND  ALL  BUT  HE  DEPARTED''      joi 

"  What  did  the  cratur  mean  when  he  spoke  »boot 
•  mixed  metaphora '  ?  I  never  heard  tell  o'  tb'im 
before." 

"  I'm  not  very  auro,"  answered  Andrew  cautiouely ; 
"  he  must  have  meant  something." 

•'  •  Mixed  metaphors,' "  mnsed  Gavin ,  *  an'  the  body 
wadna  tak'  onythin' ;  it'll  be  somethin*  they  tak'  in 
Ameriky — I'll  ask  Konnie** 

Now  Bonnie  wai  the  bar-tender  I 


mtmamtm^iaM 


XXX 


LOVK'a    VICTOHf    OV£B    81N 


E 

s 


rriHE  curUin  of  the  night  had  fallen— and  haman 
Bouls  were  on  their  trial;  for  human  life  ii 
then  behind  the  scenes,  and  the  candour  of  its  purity 
or  shame  comes  with  the  shelter  of  the  falling  night 
In  their  noblest  acts,  and  in  their  basest  deeds,  men 
are  Med  hj  the  impartial  dark.  Both  aUke  she 
screens,  though  with  fickle  folds,  retreating  wher,  she 
hears  the  first  footfall  of  the  dawn;  then  is  every 
man's  work  made  manifest  of  what  sort  it  is— and 
the  great  judgment  day  shaU  be  but  relentless  light 

The  landscape  no  longer  glimmered  on  the  sight 
when  Michael  Blake  set  out  from  the  little  inn,  his 
heart  burning  with  fear.  And  hope  heaped  fuel'  on 
the  flame,  for  feai  would  die  if  it  were  not  for  hope. 
He  walked  on  beneath  the  stately  elms,  their  far- 
spread  branches  whispering  as  he  passed,  for  they 
knew  well  his  step,  and  wondered  that  it  hurried  so. 
He  paused  at  the  spring  and  drank  again,  but  his 
thirst  was  still  unquenched. 

He  looked  about  him  ai  the  holy  night;  and  surg- 


LOVE'S  VICTORY  OVE:    JIN 


303 


ing  shame  flooded  neck  and  face  with  orimion.  For 
it  bad  been  tbua  and  there,  amid  the  sanctities  of  the 
night,  and  bj  their  trjsting-place,  that  the  soul's  great 
wound  was  made,  the  blood  oozing  ever  since,  oozitig 
still.  Memory,  eimine-robed,  half  enchantress  and 
half  avenger,  turned  her  face  full  on  his  as  1  >  sat  by 
the  spring ;  but  he  turned  his  own  away  and  started 
on,  ever  on. 

"  Oh,  my  God  I  Give  me  a  chance,"  he  cried, 
"  give  me  a  chance,"  and  the  darkness  answered  not, 
but  the  whispering  trees  seemed  to  have  the  woman- 
voice. 

He  sees  the  light  now ;  it  is  the  harbour  light,  and 
Michael  Blake  presses  swiftly  on,  his  heart  upbraiding 
the  laggard  feet. 

He  stands  now  before  the  door,  but  that  same 
heart,  strangely  wavering,  refuses  to  go  ia  The  hour 
has  struck  for  Michael  Blake,  the  hour  for  which  his 
soul  has  waited  long ;  but  strange  forces  seek  to  hold 
him  back.  The  chiefest  of  thefce  is  fear ;  he  feels  he 
is  hurrying  his  judgment  day,  and  when  God  would 
punislv  men,  thinks  he,  He  endows  them  with  deep 
and  burning  lovo — for  otherwise  He  cannot  speak  to 
them  in  the  eternal  tongue.  The  trembling  man 
turns  as  if  to  go  back. 

"  It  is  too  light,"  he  murmured,  "  still  too  light," 
for  the  memory  of  another  night  has  arisen  upon  him 
with  judgment  in  its  wings. 

As   he   moves   noiselessly  from    the   doorstep,  he 


i  I 


5 

i      1 


!     If 


i     i 


304        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 

pauses  by  the  window.     It  is  partly  open,  for  the 
night  is  mild.     A  woman's  figure  moves  before  it,  so 
close  that  he  could  almost  touch—and  his  arms  go 
out  unbidden,  God's  retrievers,  though  they  knew  it 
not.     He  controls  himself,  and  steps  back  a  pace  for 
she  has  passed  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.     Beside 
an  old  chest  of  drawers  she  kneels,  and  his  heart 
bums  with  eager  passion  as  he  beholds  the  beauty  of 
her  face.     Time,  and  sorrow,  and  God,  have  worked 
together.     Unto  them  all  she  hath  submitted,  and 
they  have  held  to  their  holy  task  till  the  beauty  of 
peace  rewards  their  secret  toil 

She  is  lifting  something  from  the  drawer  and  the 
light  falls  upon  it  Another,  and  still  another,  she 
takes  up  in  her  gentle  hands,  smiling  down  on  them 
the  whUe—they  are  a  child's  outgrown  possessions 
bits  of  clothing  some,  and  some  broken  toys,  such  as 
mothers  take  into  their  immortal  keeping  when  chil- 
dren  have  spurned  them  from  their  own. 

And  what  is  that,  shining  bright,  held  longer  than 
the  others,  stUl  smiling  down  upon  it,  her  bosom 
heavmg  more  heavily  than   before?     He  knows,  he 
knows— it  is  a  little   brooch,  so  little,  but  of  gold 
given  her  long  ago  in  the  first  glad  sacrifice  of  love! 
She  kisses  it,  and  the    tears   fall   fast    upon   it,   the 
lovely  face  sufinsed.     It  ia  tenderly  restored  to  its 
hidmg-place,  and  the  graceful  form  is  full-bowed  now. 
He  can  see  the  white  clasped  hands,  and  the  move- 
ment of  the  pure  lips  he  also  seea.     The  words  he 


-  ~t.ll1lgM.-.^t^ 


mmamm 


^*^.i?j^.:,_ti 


LOVE'S    VICTORY  OVER  SIN 


305 


cannot  catch — for  God  is  close,  and  the  voice  is  low. 
But  the  fragrance  of  prayer  steals  out  to  him,  and 
the  Interpreter,  once  called  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  tells 
him  for  whom  she  prays.  "Make  me  worthy,  0 
God,"  he  cries,  his  heart  melted  within  him.  Again 
he  turns  to  the  door,  and  this  time  he  falters  not,  but 
knocks.     In  a  moment  it  is  opened. 

" Guid-evenin',  sir,"  said  the  woman's  voice.  "I 
canna  see  ye  for  the  dark ;  is  it  someone  I 
ken  ? "  for  wayfarers  often  sought  guidance  at  her 
door. 

"  No,  I  fear  you  do  not  know  me,"  the  man  re- 
sponded ;  "  and  I  crave  your  pardon  for  thus  disturbing 
you.     I  have  travelled  far." 

"  Will  ye  come  in  ?  Or  is  there  something  I  can 
do?" 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  man  ;  "  I  have  travelled 
far  and  am  thirsty.  I  seek  but  a  draught  of  water, 
and  I  shall  go  on  my  way." 

"  I'll  sune  gie  ye  that,"  replied  the  woman's  cheery 
voice ;  "  but  what's  here  is  mebbe  raither  warm.  Bida 
ye  here  till  I  rin  doon  to  the  spring." 

The  sweet  face  gleamed  in  the  candle-light  as  she 
turned  within,  picking  up  a  light  plaid  shawl,  so 
strong  is  habit,  which  she  threw  across  her  shoulders. 
The  tall  gracious  form  was  gone  a  moment,  one  dark- 
some moment,  returning  instantly,  a  pitcher  in  her 
hand.  Down  the  steps  she  tripped,  and  out  into  the 
night,  her  white  gown  mingling  with  the  darkness. 


MM^tf^imMI 


li 


I , 


:    r 


306        ST.  CUTHBERT'S  OF  THE    WEST 

Michael  Blake  stealthily  followed  her,  his  heart  in 
wild  tumult  again.  Her  pace  was  swift  and  he  found 
it  difficult  to  keep  the  path.  But  again  he  saw  the 
flutter  of  white  before  him,  and  he  knew  that  it  was 
Janet,  none  other,  the  same  whom  he  had  held  so 
close  in  other  days.  He  ran  a  little,  panting  as  he 
ran,  his  thirst  a  torment  now — for  the  chase  was  of 
the  soul.  He  is  not  far  from  her. 
"Janet,"  he  cried. 

She  stopped  and  stood  still,  as  a  deer  stops  when  it 
hears  the  hunte.  3  voice. 

H'^  was  closer  now,  and  again  he  cried:  "Janet, 
oh,     .net,  wait  for  me." 

Her  pitcher  was  thrown  upon  the  sward  and  she 
came  back  a  little  way,  eye  and  heart  and  bosom 
calling  to  each  other  through  the  storm. 

"  Wha's  callin'  me  ? "  she  cried,  her  voice  bleating 
like  a  lamb's. 

"  Oh,  Janet,  you  know  who's  calling  you — I  have 
called  you  long,"  and  holy  passion  burned  in  the 
voice  that  spoke,  leaped  from  the  face  that  came 
closer,  still  closer,  to  her  own. 

The  white  figure  swayed  in  the  darkness.  Then 
the  night  glowed  about  her  like  the  noon,  and  the 
strong  arms  held  her  close,  and  time  and  sorrow  and 
God  ail  gave  her  up  ungrudgingly  to  the  bliss  they 
had  planned  together ;  for  in  secret  had  they  bedecked 
her  as  a  bride  adorned  for  her  husband. 


msamasmtm 


^mmmmmmm 


LOVE'S   VICTORY  OVER  SIN 


307 


It  was  long  after,  how  long  may  not  be  told,  for 
God  would  let  no  angel  mark  the  time ;  but  the  dark 
still  was  brooding,  and  the  trees  whispering  still,  when 
he  said :  "  To-morrow,  Janet — all  the  years  have  made 
us  ready — yet  not  to-morrow,  for  it  is  to-d«.y — to-day, 
please  God." 

She  came  closer,  closer  to  him  stiU,  for  hers  had 
been  an  unsheltered  life,  and  the  warmth  was  strangely 
sweet. 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  spring,  dear  heart.  Let  us  be 
children  again."  Together  they  went  on,  these 
pilgrims  of  the  night.  While  they  were  going  the 
day  began  to  break.  "The  night  is  far  spent,"  he 
heard  her  whisper  joyously. 

They  knelt  together,  nor  thought  it  Strang  j — for 
the  youth^^l  heart  of  love  was  theirs  again;  and 
they  drank  from  the  unsleeping  spring,  smiling  back 
at  them  as  their  lips  kissed  its  face  together.  The 
same  spring,  the  same  lips — but  purer  both ! 

And  as  they  stooped,  two  faces  from  the  bosom  of 
the  water  rose  rgain  to  meet  them.  Each  of  the 
lovers  saw  but  one,  for  each  saw  the  other's  face. 
And  lo!  each  was  the  face  of  happy  youth,  the 
light  of  love  within  its  eyes,  unchanged  by  years, 
except  for  a  graver  innocence.  But  each  saw  the 
face  that  had  looked  up  and  smiled  in  the  years  so 
long  gone  by. 

The  scientist  and  the  philosopher  and  the  deeply 
learned    in   Nature's    laws    wili    read    of    this    with 


11  li 


308        ST.  CUTIIBERrs  OF  THE   WEST 

generous  disdain;  but  they  forget  that  this  spring 
had  its  charter  right  from  God,  and  was  fed  from 
other  fountains  farther  up  the  hilL  Besides,  optics 
is  God's  own  science — and  this  was  the  morning 
light 


^jiiagaismmai^mmMmimit^ 


^.msj*m:y'mm^h.. 


XXXI 


love's  triumph  over  all 


ALL  things  were  in  readiness,  and  the  people  of 
St.  Cuthbert's  were  awaiting  the  Sabbath  day 
with  eager  souls.  For  it  was  the  Sabbath  of  the 
sacrament,  dispensed  but  twice  a  year,  according  to 
the  custom  of  their  fathers.  I  myself  looked  forward 
to  this  con*.  '  ■"  with  a  kindling  heart,  for  I  knew 
its  healing  grace ;  nd  this  was  the  first  dispensation 
since  the  shadow  of  that  ordination  day  had  fallen  on 
our  church's  life. 

The  morning  came,  radiant  in  its  robe  of  early 
spring,  and  we  knew  that  a  great  multitude  would 
throng  St.  Cuthbert's.  For  the  aged  and  long  im- 
prisoned, denied  the  regular  services  of  tlie  kirk, 
would  yet  venture  forth  to  show  the  Lord's  death 
once  again,  some  to  drink  that  cup  no  more  till  they 
should  drink  it  new  in  their  Father's  kingdom. 

Down  the  aisle  would  they  come,  leaning  heavily 
upon  the  staff — but  they  knew  their  Hccuetomed 
places,  the  places  which  were  bo  soon  to  know  them 
no  more  for  ever;  when  the  service  was  over,  they 

809 


m 


310        W.  CUTHBERTS  OF  THE    WEST 


%. 


I 


would  retrace  their  Bteps  to  the  door  of  the  noM» 
deserted  church,  and  backward  turning,  would  cast 
one  longing,  lingering  look  behind,  then  set  their 
peaceM  faces  towards  their  home,  the  long  rough 
journey  near  its  end  at  last. 

The  elders,  including  the  four  recently  added  to 
their  number,  met  as  usual  for  preparatory  prayer. 
More  than  ordinary  tenderness  seemed  to  mark  their 
petitions,  for  their  hearts  were  with  the  absent ;  and 
the  senior  elder  thrilled  us  when  he  prayed  for  "  him 
whom  we  had  hoped  to  begin  his  ministry  this  day, 
and  for  Thy  servant  who  was  wont  in  the  days  that 
are  passed  to  serve  with  us  before  Thine  altar." 

As  I  walked  into  the  pulpit,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Margaret's  face,  and  never  have  I  seen  sweeter  peace 
than  rested  upon  it.  Her  eyes  reposed  on  the  snowy 
cloth  that  hid  the  emblems  of  a  greater  sacrifice,  and 
she  knew,  as  few  could  know,  the  deep  sacramental 
joy. 

But  hardly  had  my  heart  warmed  at  sight  of  her, 
before  sorrow  chilled  its  ardoiir ;  for  right  opposite 
Margaret's  pew  was  that  of  Michael  Blake — and  its 
emptiness  smote  my  heuft  with  pain.  Not  there,  nor 
in  his  rightful  place  among  the  elders,  was  my  old- 
time  friend.  Where,  I  could  not  help  but  wonder, 
where  to-day  is  the  xmhappy  man  who  has  cast  his 
ministry  behind  him?  And  bitter  memories  of 
varied  verdicts  flitted  before  me  as  I  went  up  the 
pulpit  steps. 


^^^/B^jimsm^tmemmsmBmmttmMmtmiu 


LOVE'S  TRIUMPH  OVER  ALL 


3" 


We  had  begun  the  psalm,  and  were  in  the  midet 
of  the  line — ^never  can  I  forget  it — 

"As  far  M  east  is  distant  from 
The  west,  ao  far  hath  He" 

when  I  noticed  the  volume  of  song  become  gradually 
lesB,  and  a  nameless  sense  of  discomfort  possessed 
me. 

I  looked  up,  and  could  scarce  restrain  a  cry. 

For  I  saw  the  face  of  Michael  Blake — and  he  was 
walking  down  the  aisle — and  that  other,  who  is  that  ? 
For  beside  him  is  a  woman's  comedy  form,  her  sweet 
face  lowly  bent  as  though  it  wo  .1  be  hidden,  the 
light  of  purity  mingling  with  the  conscious  flame. 

Upon  Mr.  Blake's  face  is  the  humble,  chastened 
look  of  one  whom  God  has  touched — in  the  hollow 
of  his  thigh,  mayhap — and  the  limp  may  be  seen  of 
all  men  to  the  last.  But  pride  is  there  too,  the 
solemn  pride  of  one  who  has  wrestled  and  prevailed, 
to  go  henceforth  for  ever  halting,  but  for  ever  heaven- 
ward. 

Down  the  aisle,  the  same  aisle  by  which  he  had 
departed  from  ub,  they  walked  together,  while  wonder- 
ing faces  drank  in  the  meaning  of  it  all,  joy  breaking 
forth  upon  them  like  the  sun  when  darkening  clouds 
have  gone. 

He  leads  her  to  his  old-time  pew,  and  she  takes  the 
place  that  is  henceforth  to  be  her  own.  The  singiTig 
has  stopped,  Ba\e  those  silent  strains  with  which  God 


ii 


Ha* 


S«a        ST.  CUTIIBERTS  OF  THE    WEST 


H- 


is  well  pleased,  the  same  as  angels  echo  round  the 
throne. 

It  was  hard  for  mo  to  proceed  with  the  service,  for 
I  knew  that  God  Himself  had  spoken.  The  sacred 
bush  was  in  ilame  before  us  as  in  the  olden  time,  and 
the  place  whereon  we  stood  was  holy  ground.  The 
portion  I  had  chosen  for  the  reading  was  from 
First  Corinthians,  the  apostle's  great  eulogy  on  love ; 
and  my  voice  faltered  as  I  read  some  of  its  wondrous 
words. 

Before  I  had  finished  it,  my  resolve  was  taken.  I 
came  down  from  the  pulpit  and  stood  before  it,  the 
elders  all  about  me. 

"Let  us  have  our  unbroken  number,"  I  began; 
"  the  kirk  session  is  constituted,  and  I  call  upon  such 
as  have  been  chosen  to  serve  within  it,  to  come  for- 
ward and  assume  the  holy  office.  After  this,  the 
sacrament  of  forgiving  love  will  be  dispensed." 

I  paused — and  no  one  of  all  the  multitude  seemed 
to  breathe.  But  a  moment  passed,  and  then  a  sound 
broke  the  stillness.  It  was  the  sound  of  moving  feet, 
and  the  elder-elect  arose  and  came  slowly  forward, 
his  head  bowed  as  he  came. 

"  Kneel  down,  Angus,"  I  said  softly.  He  kneeled, 
and  I  had  almost  begun,  my  hands  outstretched  above 
his  head.  He  raised  his  face  to  mine,  lowered  to 
meet  it.     A  moment  told  me  what  he  wished  to  say. 

"  Stand  up,"  I  whispered. 

When  he  had  risen,  I  said  aloud :  "  Angus  Strachan, 


w^antm 


LOVE'S  TRIUMPH  OVER  ALL 


3»3 


ordained  already,  I  give  you  the  right  hand  of  fellow- 
ship into  the  eldership  of  St.  Cuthbert's  ChurcL  The 
Lord  bless  thee  and  keep  thee ;  the  Lord  make  His 
face  to  shine  upon  thee  and  be  gracious  unto  thee ; 
the  Lord  lift  the  light  of  Ilis  countenance  upon  thee 
and  give  thee  peace." 

Again  I  raised  my  voice  as  I  faced  the 
worshippers, 

"I  extend  yei;  another  invitation  in  my  Master's 
name.  I  call  upon  any  who  may  be  among  us,  once 
serving  in  the  eldership  of  this  church,  to  come  for- 
ward and  aid  us  to  dispense  the  pledges  of  fo.^giving 
love  to  other  sinful  men." 

I  waited,  but  there  was  no  response.  One  sat  with 
bowed  head,  his  hand  held  in  the  gentle  keeping  of 
another's.  The  moments  passed,  but  still  silence 
reigned. 

"  Come  awa',  man," — it  was  Eonald  M'Gregor's 
trembling  voice  from  among  the  elders, — "  come  awa' ; 
it's  the  wounded  hand  that  beckons  ye — we're  a'  here 
o'  the  Saviour's  grace  alane." 

Michael  Blake  moved  slightly,  but  his  head  was 
lower  bowed. 

"Gang  forrit,  Michael,  gang  forrit  to  the  table. 
He's  been  gey  guid  to  us  baith — an'  oor  Angus  wants 
ye,"  whispered  the  woman  beside  him. 

Then  he  came;  and,  as  he  walked  to  the  *^ble,  the 
meauiug  of  God's  pardoniDg  love  seemed  faoine  in 
upon  us  as  it  had  never  been  before. 


314        ST  CUTHBERT'S  OP  THE   WEST 

He  had  hardlj  taken  his  seat  beside  us  when  wo 
heard  a  faint  rustling  sound,  someone  moving.  I 
turned  my  head,  and  saw  Margaret,  her  face  Icvely 
through  its  tears,  slip  into  the  emptj  plac«  and  take 
in  her  own  the  hand  that  had  been  just  released. 
Burning  hot  it  was,  but  she  held  it  tight — and  Janet 
took  her  into  her  heart  for  ever. 

Then  the  sacred  emblems  were  poured  and  broken 
by  our  sinful  hands,  redeemed  by  lov^  alone.  The 
elders  bore  them  forth  to  the  waiting  souls,  and  when 
Angus  came  to  his  mother's  place,  great  grace  was 
upon  us  all.  He  had  bent  one  moment  before  she 
took  the  chalice  in  her  trembling  hand.  One  word 
was  spoken,  only  one,  and  what  it  was  no  one  heard 
— nor  Margaret,  nor  anyone  but  God. 

•  ••••• 

Because  of  more  abounding  grace,  and  because  of 
that  alone,  I  cherish  the  trembling  hope  that  I  shall 
yet  hear  the  new  and  holy  song  in  the  blessed  home- 
land yonder.  Yonder,  I  say,  for  on  clear  days  I  have 
seen  the  dim  outline  of  the  hills  beyond  the  river ; 
and  sometimes  in  the  night  I  have  caught  the  flow 
of  an  unsetting  sun.  Only  for  a  moment,  it  is  true 
— but  it  was  enough.  My  sight  is  failing,  they  tell 
me,  and  the  light  is  not  so  clear  as  in  the  early  after- 
noon, but  these  yonder  things  are  seen  the  clearest 
in  the  failing  light,  and  by  eyes  that  are  past  their 
best. 

Wherefore,  as  I  set  out  to  say,  I  think  I  shall  be 


LOVE'S  TRIUMPH  OVER  ALL 


3»5 


welcomed  thither  by  the  pilgiims'  friend,  and  hear 
that  Bong  of  the  redeemed. 

But  not  till  then  can  I  expect  to  ever  hear  again 
such  melody  as  poured  from  our  hearts  that  morning 
in  St  Cuthbert's.  As  for  myself,  I  could  scarcely 
sing ;  I  was  so  torn  'twixt  joy  and  sorrow.  Sorrow 
for  what  7  for  all  my  stubborn  wilfulness,  that  bad 
stood  so  long  between  lovin^r  hearts — but  I  did  it  for 
the  best;  and  God  will  forgive  me,  who  knows  a 
father's  t-ender  love. 

Therefor'*  my  lips  were  almost  dumb,  but  my  heart 
joined  in  the  swelling  praise  that  rolled  about  St. 
Cuthbert's  like  a  liood.  And  1  heard  one  voice  clear 
and  sweet  among  all  the  rest ;  it  came  from  the  pew 
where  sat  our  Margaret,  but  it  was  not  Margaret's 
voice — 

"  Long  hath  tbe  night  of  sorrow  reigned ; 
The  duwn  shall  bring  oa  light"  — 

Thus  reads  our  noble  paraphrase — and  thus  reads  the 
providence  of  God  This  it  was  wc  sang  that  day ; 
and  this  all  broken  hearts  shall  one  day  sing,  when 
life's  long  twilight  breaka 

After  the  congregation  had  dispersed,  I  saw  Mai- 
garet  lead  her  mother  to  the  pew.  It  wi'-s  beautiful, 
my  wife's  gentle  grace  to  the  timid  stranger,  for 
Margaret  received  of  her  mother  whatever  of  that 
gjtt  she  hath — and  I  have  always  said  her  mother's 
is  the  rarer  of  the  two.  I  iicurd  her  bid  her  cew- 
fo\u)(1  friend  to  the  manse,  and   I  echoed  the   man< 


3i6       ST.  CUTHDERT'S  OF  THE   WEST 


date  to  the  man  beside  me,  his  head  still  bowed  in 
prayer. 

The  elders  retired  in  a  body  to  the  vestry,  there 
to  be  dismissed  by  the  benediction.  Which  I  pro- 
nounced upon  them,  the  triune  blessing  of  the  triune 
God.  Usi  'ly  they  lingered  for  a  little  subdued  con- 
versation, but  this  day  they  went  out  with  unwonted 
speed,  each  grasping  the  hands  of  the  old  elder  and 
the  new,  and  each  without  a  word. 

In  a  moment  I  saw  their  purpose,  and  went  out 
along  ^  '.h  them,  leaving  those  twain  together,  the 
father  and  the  son.  We  heard  no  word ;  but  we 
knew  the  best  robe,  and  the  ring,  and  the  shoes 
were  there,  and  that  God  would  dispense  them  in 
sacramental  love. 

It  was  not  long  till  they  came  out  again,  life's 
fragrance  about  them  as  they  came.  I  had  lingered 
in  the  church. 

"  Just  wait  a  minute,"  I  said  as  they  came  in ; 
"  I  left  my  notes  in  the  vestry,  and  I  will  be  back 
immediately." 

I  had  hardly  reached  the  room  when  a  light 
footfall  was  heard  behind  me.  It  was  my 
daughter. 

"Margaret!  Is  this  you?  I  thought  you  had 
gone  home.  Where  is  your  mother  ? "  Lovely  was 
her  face,  and  beautiful  the  light  of  joy  upon  it 

She  did  not  aeem  to  hear,  but  came  straight  on, 
and  in  a  moment  her  arms  were   about   my  neck, 


LOVE'S  TRIUMPH  OVER  ALL 


3'7 


»nd   the   brave   heart   told  all  it«  atorj  in   tears   of 
utter  gladnesa. 

"  Daughter  mine,"  I  whispered,  "  you  will  forgir*  - 
— but  the  gentle  hand  stopped  the  words. 

"  Where  is  your  mother  ? "  I  asked  again. 

"Gone  to  the  manse — they  went  together,"  and 
the  sun  shone  through  the  rain — "  I  waited  for  you." 

"  Wait  a  moment."  I  said,  "  stay  here  a  moment," 
— for  I  knew  the  ways  of  love. 

I  hurried  without,  and  in  the  church  I  found  the 
two  men  lingering  for  me. 

"Mr.  Blake,  we  will  walk  down  to  the  manse 
together — Margaret  is  waiting  for  you  in  my  room, 
Aiigua." 

No  maiden's  fluttering  form  betrays  the  soul  of 
love  as  doth  a  strong  man's  face.  Ah  me  1  as  I 
looked  on  Angus's  in  that  moment,  I  knew  to  whom 
my  child  belonged  the  moat  But  the  broken  em- 
blems of  Another's  lay  before  me,  and  I  made  tht 
leaser  sacrifice  with  joy. 

I  watched  his  eager  step,  nor  did  he  seek  to 
control  its  pace.  Swiftly  he  walked,  and  I  could 
not  forbear  to  follow  with  my  eye«  till  he  stood 
before  the  door. 

A  moment  he  paused,  I  know  not  why — then  he 
slowly  entered  and  the  door  was  shut. 


Pm.VTED   UV  IIORRISO.V   AM)  UUJ3   I.IMITEH,    CLiINIIlBOa 


^  :* 


